J> 



a<m 



RECOLLECTIONS 



OF 



JOTHAM ANDERSON. 



SECOND EDITION, ENLARGED. 



WITH OTHER PIECES OF A SIMILAR CHARACTER, 






/ 



BOSTON: 

CHRISTIAN REGISTER OFFICE! 

S: B. Manning, Printer. 
1828. 



J>\ £ 



^ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

1 

The Recollections ivere originally prints 
d in the Christian Register, and were 
epublished in a volume about four years ago. 
€o the present edition have been added four 
hapten, which must be considered as closing 
\e work, though they still leave it incomplete. 
?he other articles were also first printed in 
:e same paper, excepting one, which appear- 
i in the Christian Visitant. The < Ex- 
* *ts from a JournaP represent strictly and 
'♦' 'ally what took place. Of the other pieces, 
ome are founded in fact, and some are the 
ffspring of imagination. But the object of 

™il has been to do good, and it is hoped that 

they have not altogether failed in it. 

HENRY WARE, Jr. 
May, 1828. 



CONTENTS, 

Recollections op Jotham Anderson 2 

Miscellaneous Pieces . . . . . 135 

£~ A Sabbath with my Friend ... 137 

^ The Village Funeral ..#... 159 

May Morning 167 

Extracts from a Journal . . . .17$ 



RECOLLECTIONS, &c. 



CHAPTEIl i 

I have lived long enough in the world to 
exhaust all its pleasures, and to be more than 
wearied with its cares. Like other old men, 
I look back upon a life of mingled joy and 
sorrow, light and darkness, and take an 
equally melancholy satisfaction in the re- 
membrance of each. There is one light, as 
I look back, which I see shining every where; 
brighter than the sun of my prosperity, and 
casting the rainbow of peace on every cloud 
of my adversity — and that is the light of 
God's love. I cannot remember the hour 
when I have seen it hidden. O that I had 
always honored and loved it as became his 
child ! — And even now, when the infirmities 
of age are stealing upon me, and to the out- 
ward eye of man nothing remains for me but 



toil and sorrow — even now, that love is not 
withdrawn. It has lighted up, as I may say, 
a torch of hope, which dissipates all the pre- 
sent clouds of earth, and scatters the thick 
darkness of the valley of the shadow of death. 
He who was the guide of my youth, is the 
strength of my age. He who was my sun at 
the noon of life, is my shield at its close. 
Why should I fear for the future, when the 
past, though chequered with ill, is yet one 
continued testimony of divine faithfulness ? 

Methinks, as I draw near the tomh, I am 
as much tranquillized and gladdened by my 
remembrance of the past, as by my hope of 
the future. And why should I not be ? For 
my faith in the promises is always the clear- 
er and brighter, when I think of my experi- 
ence of past faithfulness ; and my hope is 
never so steadfast, as when it is supported 
upon the arm of memory. It is when I re- 
flect on the joy and peace of days gone by, 
that I feel most able to trust those which are 
coming. It is then that 

Religion bears my spirits up, 
And I enjoy a blessed hope. 

1 cannot remember the time when I bad 
not a sense of religion, and a fear of God ; 



3 



and I have no doubt that it is owing to my 
early and habitual impressions, which became 
interwoven in my soul, as a part of its very 
fabric, or constitution, that I have enjoyed 
such quietness and steadfastness throughout 
a long pilgrimage. Little do parents consid- 
er, while they are forming their infants' 
hearts and characters upon other principles, 
and teaching them to act by other motives, 
how difficult they render a subjection to relig- 
ious motives afterward, and how they sub- 
tract from the sum of their religious enjoy- 
ment! Were all mothers like mine, how 
greatly would the obedience of the young 
Christian's pilgrimage be facilitated, and its 
peace ensured! — I loveto'dwell on the mem- 
ory of that honored woman. My earliest re- 
collection of her is in the act of teaching me 
to pray, — when she every evening took me 
on her knees, and, clasping my little hands, 
made me repeat after her my childish peti- 
tions. Methinks I still see the beautiful 
expression of her maternal eye, and feel the 
kiss, full of affection and piety, with which 
she closed the service. At such limes, she 
would explain to me the purposes of prayer, 
yjid teach me to love the good Being, who 



gave me father and mother, and made me 
happy. It was her practice, also, to seize 
the moments when my young heart was over- 
flowing with cheerfulness and good will, to 
remind me of the Father above, and direct 
my gratitude to him. Thus his image became 
associated in my thoughts, with all that was 
gladsome and delightful ; with every satis- 
faction and every enjoyment. It was min- 
gled with all my remembrances of maternal 
fondness ; and the love of God grew upon 
the same branch with the love of my parents. 
I sought to please him, I feared to offend 
him, I loved to speak of him, and to him, in 
the innocent openness of my young heart, 
and to regard him, in all respects, as I did 
my parents. Thus there was nothing of se- 
verity, or gloom, or dread, in my early relig- 
ious feelings. I knew nothing of the dislike 
of religion, which I have seen in many oth- 
ers. The judicious piety of my parents made 
it a delight to me, and not a burden. I saw it 
mixing with all their thoughts and pursuits, 
most evidently the ingredient of life which 
did most to make them happy ; never casting 
a gloom over them, never arraying them in 
sternness, nor driving away innocent pleas- 
ures ; — and thus it found its wav to my 



Heart, and (blessed be He who has support 
ed me) it has never left my heart, or ceased 
to be its joy and peace. I have much inconsis? 
tency to be ashamed of, and many sins to la- 
ment ; but, thanks to my pious parents, and 
the grace of God, I have never failed to find 
religion a pleasure, and never withdrawri 
from my father's God, 

that parents would but take a hint of 
wisdom from this, and treat the young im- 
mortals committed to them 5 as if they were 
indeed immortal! / have no children. It 
hath not pleased my Father that I shall leave 
my name behind me. I cannot, therefore, 
repay to my own offspring the debt which I 
: owe to my parents ; I can only intreat others 
to do it. And J do most earnestly solicit 
them to drive austerity from their religious 
teachings^ and to make the idea of God not 
only one of the earliest, but one of the hap- 
piest of the infant mind. Let it be presented, 
not rarely, with ceremony, and on occasions 
of sadness and alarm— as if a fearful object 
of dread, which shuns all that is happy ; but 
let it be a familiar thought, beloved, because 
always connected with happiness, and to be 
feared only by those who do wrong. 
r 2 



Thus passed the years of my childhood — 
happier were never known. I was made 
early familiar with the history and truths of 
revealed religion, and taught to act every 
day from a regard to them before any other 
motive. My parents were very seldom known 
to employ other motives with their children 
than those of religion. And the consequence 
was, I was always made to inquire, Is it right? 
Will it please God? Would Jesus approve this? 
Is this doing as I would be done by? — till such 
questions formed the standard of my conduct, 
just as What will people think? Is this genteel? 
Is this for my interest? are the inquiries which 
decide the men of the world. They referred 
me, on all occasions, to the life and example 
of the Saviour, and taught me to contemplate, 
with admiration and delight, the purity, be- 
nevolence, and piety, of that holy pattern. 
They tried to make it my ambition to imitate 
him ; and never shall I forget, how I was 
sometimes affected by the earnest and feeling 
manner in which they told me the wonderful 
story of his love and sufferings, and urged 
me to begin young and follow him. 

Such, in general, was something of the 
system of paternal instruction to which I ow- 



ed so much ; for it gave me a religious pro- 
pensity, which, in all the after struggles and 
sins of life, I never lost. — Truly, God's 
greatest blessings are pious parents. 



CHAPTER II. 

In the account which I gave, in the former 
chapter, of my religious education, I rather 
described the method of my parents, and 
the design they had in view, than its actual 
effect on myself ; — for I can, by no means, 
think that I at any time became altogether 
such as they wished to make me. But, as- 
suredly, their labor was not lost; for the seed 
which they so faithfully planted, and assidu- 
ously cultivated, never has died, however 
feebly it may have flourished. The trunk 
has grown old, and begins to decav ; it will 
soon fail ; but there is hope that it " will 
sprout again, though the root thereof wax old 
in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the 
ground," — that it will spring up with new 



J 



yigor and eternal beauty in the garden of 
God. 

My childhood passed like that of other 
children who have tender and watchful par- 
ents, and has left as few distinct traces, 
which are worth recording. The waves of 
time have flowed over the track which my 
little boat made, and I can discern its path 
no longer. 

I was in my fourteenth year when I lost 
my mother. This is one of the events which 
made a lasting impression. She had been, 
for a long time, gradually wasting away, 
and I had seen the anxious countenance and 
manner with which my father watched her. 
But a boy, even of thirteen, is not likely to 
understand or realize such signs, and I re- 
member I had no foreboding of the coming 
calamity. But, at length, I observed an al- 
tered tone in the morning and evening prayer 
of my father, which impressed me. I began 
to suspect the truth. J observed more nar- 
rowly. I discovered that the form was wast- 
ed, the cheek had grown pale, the eye had 
sunk, and disease had made a fearful onset, 
while my childish eyes had been blinded.— 
And [ do not wonder that they were blinH 



ed; for the calm and cheerful manner of my 
mother was unaltered, and she spoke and 
smiled as she always had done. But I now 
saw the truth, and every hour served to make 
me see it yet more plainly. My solicitude 
soon betrayed itself, and then my father sum- 
moned resolution to speak upon the subject 
to his children. The others were younger 
than myself. They were frolicking in all the 
unapprehensive lightness of childhood, when 
he called us around him. There were four 
of us. The youngest sprang upon his. knee, 
and playfully put her lips to his mouth; while 
the rest of us, who perceived the emotion 
upon his face, gazed upon him, and gave 
him our hands without speaking. As soon 
as he could command himself — " My chil- 
dren," said he, " God has given you a good 
mother; but he is about to take her away 
from you. You will not see her much long- 
er. She is visited by a disease which is 
hurrying her to the grave, and we can do 
nothing but weep, and give her back to God. 
But we must not weep," said he, bursting 
into tears, "for she is only going home; go- 
ing to be happy, which she has not been 
here. It would be wrong to mourn, for she 



10 



is only going to sleep a sweet sleep, and we 
shall all, by and bye, sleep too, and then 
shall all rise together, if we have been good." 
Not many days after this, my mother call- 
ed me to her, as I sat in the chamber, and, 
kissing my cheek — u You are old enough," 
said she. " to know what death means, and 
to learn a lesson from it. I am soon to die. 
J have known it for a long time, and have 
perfectly prepared my mind to meet the 
event. I have no longer reluctance or fear. 
And now, my dear son, while I speak to you, 
perhaps for the last time, hear my parting 
counsel. I have tried to teach you your du- 
ty, and to fill your mind with religious prin- 
ciples. Do not swerve from those princi- 
ples. They are my support now, they al- 
ways have been my support. You will need 
them as much as I do. And if you would 
cherish them, and have them strong, I charge 
you never pass a day without prayer. Pro- 
mise me this, and I shall feel easy." I kiss- 
ed her hand, and bowed my head; for I could 
not speak. She put her hand beneath the 
pillow, and taking thence a locket, contain- 
ing a braid of her own hair, she gave it to 
me. " I do not know ; " said she, " that <\t- 



parted spirits are acquainted with what hap- 
pens to the friends they have left on earth; 
hut if they are, I shall never cease to watch 
your life with maternal solicitude. Think of 
this whenever your eyes meet this memorial 
of my love. Reflect that perhaps I see you, 
and remember the promise you have made 
me; or, if not so" — she added in a voice of 
inconceivable expressiveness, — " reflect that 
God sees you, and bears witness whether 
you keep that promise or not. My dear son, 
farewell ! a mother's parting blessing is on 
your head; and do Thou, O Father, bless 
him, and make him thine!" She kissed me 
again, and sunk back exhausted. 

It seems as if I still heard her voice, and 
gazed upon her composed, but animated 
features. And it is one of the joyful antici- 
pations of my approaching removal from 
earth, that I shall again see that face, and 
be united to her pure spirit, never to part 
more. I had no spirit, after this, to leave 
her side, or to engage in any occupation. — 
I was suffered to remain near her; to see 
the gradual approach of dissolution; and 
to witness the tranquillity and cheerfulness 
with which Christian faith can await the ap- 



13 



palling summons. She was too weak to say 
much, but sometimes gave a word of encour- 
agement, admonition, or blessing, to those 
who were near her ; and after she became 
unable to speak, she still looked unuttera- 
ble things, and smiled upon those who did 
her any little offices of kindness. All was 
peace within and without; and gently at 
last did she sink asleep in Jesus, without a 
groan or a struggle, and with an expression 
upon her face, as if she had already caught a 
glimpse of the glory to come. 

There are some who would keep children 
from the chamber of death, and remove from 
their minds, as soon as possible, the impres- 
sions which sorrow may have made. They 
little consider the natural buoyancy of the 
mind, and the tendency of all feeling to pass 
away from a young heart. My father was 
one of those who think that the solemn im- 
pressions of such a season should be deep- 
ened, and pains taken to make them lasting. 
He thought that much might be done to give 
right views of the value and purposes of ex- 
istence, and to get ready that frame of mind 
which is best fitted to meet and endure the 
changes of the world. By his conversation, 



IS 

therefore, and instruction, for a long period, 
he kept fresh the feelings to which this sad 
event had given birth. He did not converse 
a great deal in the formal way; it was not 
his habit, and he rather avoided it, from a 
persuasion that it was not an effectual mode 
of addressing young persons. I do not think 
that he ever made a long harangue to his 
children upon any subject. His custom was 
to seize moments when their minds were 
cheerful and at ease, or when any remarka- 
ble event had excited their attention, and by 
a few 7 concise, pointed remarks, sometimes 
by only one single emphatic expression, con- 
vey the important lesson. He would then 
leave it to work upon their minds. And it 
would often happen that the words would sink 
down into their hearts, and never be forgot- 
ten. T can recall many examples of forci- 
ble sayings thus uttered, which were of great 
use to me afterward; but I am certain that the 
same sentiment, diluted into a formal speech 
of fifteen or twenty minutes, would have made 
no impression, and been altogether lost. 

Upon the present occasion, he pursued 
his customary course. He spoke seldom; 
and because seldom, I dwelt the more upon 
c 



14 

what he did say. I forgot nothing. And as 
he directed my reading, and the whole occu- 
pation of my time, I was, for a long season, 
prevented from returning to the sports of my 
childhood, or regaining the frolicksome dis- 
position of boyhood. 



CHAPTER III. 

The education of his children now became 
the favorite employment of my father. His 
parish was in a small and retired village, and 
his parishioners of that humble class, who 
require nothing more of their minister than 
an affectionate interest in their welfare, and 
the plainest instructions in the plainest truths. 
His duties as a minister, therefore, were not 
burdensome, and afforded him ample time 
for the superintendence of his children's edu- 
cation. He was a man of excellent under- 
standing, and admirable love of learning ; 
and well do I remember how delightful he 
made those years of instruction, bv orally 
communicating the various knowledge with 



15 



which his mind was full. It was the dear 
wish of his heart, that I should follow him 
in the ministerial profession ; and while he 
strove to give me settled principles of re- 
ligion and habitual devotion, he strove zeal- 
ously also to store my mind with every vari- 
ety of knowledge that could adorn and 
strengthen it. He had a great abhorrence 
of an ill-educated ministry, and kept me from 
college till I was eighteen, with the express 
design of teaching me many things which he 
thought I could not learn there. But I doubt 
not that he was, at the same time, influenc- 
ed by the wish to gratify himself by so pleas- 
ant an occupation of his lonely and widowed 
time. 

As the time approached when I was to go 
to college, it became necessary to provide 
some additional means for supporting me 
there. A country minister may manage with 
his children at home pretty well, for they 
may aid him on his little farm. But it is not 
so easy to support them abroad. It was con- 
sequently necessary that I should try to earn 
something for myself. A school was found 
for me in a town thirty miles distant, and I 
left home in November, to spend the winter 



16 

in this new and anxious employment. My lit- 
tle wardrobe and a few books were tied to- 
gether in a handkerchief, and slung over my 
shoulder with a stick, and so I trudged along, 
as many greater men have done. 

This winter was an important one to me, 
as it left its traces upon my whole after life. 
I was a very bashful young man, wholly 
unaccustomed to the society of men, and 
quite ignorant of the world. Great, there- 
fore, were the sufferings I endured, both in 
school and out of school. I was anxious, 
from principle, to do my duty ; but, from ti- 
midity and inexperience, I failed to give per- 
fect satisfaction. My own anxiety exagge- 
rated my deficiency to my own view, and 
often did I wet my pillow with the tears that 
were wrung from my oppressed heart. Such 
trials, however, did me good, as they helped 
me in learning to face the world, and cast 
me more exclusively on my religious con- 
victions for support and happiness. I have 
always found that seasons of removal to 
strange places and new duties, have been 
those in which my faith and sense of duty 
have been most rapidly improved. When 
all others were strangers around me, I went 



n 

the more frequently to God, as a father and 
accustomed friend. 

But what I remember particularly in this 
season, was the trial I underwent in learning 
the stress that was laid upon the differences 
among Christians. My father, as I have said 
before, lived in a retired village, to which 
the noise of the polemic world did not reach; 
and whose inhabitants, happy in the simplic- 
ity of good and holy lives, felt no interest 
in the questions ofivords, on which the faith 
and charity of so many are suspended. They 
read their Bibles, attended public worship, 
and lived soberly, righteously, and piously 
in the world. There was nothing among 
them of the pride either of orthodoxy or here- 
sy. My father held, himself, and was labo- 
rious to instil into his people, the most en- 
larged charity toward all. He was disgust- 
ed at the spirit of narrowness and bigotry, 
which he had always seen accompanying a 
vehement zeal for particular forms of faith. 
He therefore rarely alluded, either in preach- 
ing or in conversation, to the differences 
among Christians. He seldom even named 
the names of theological parties. And thus 
it happened that, strange as it may seem, I 
b 2 



u 



grew up almost ignorant that there were 
parties in religion, entirely unacquainted 
with their badges of distinction, and with 
none of that prejudice for and against names, 
which is often the earliest iesson in religion. 
It had not escaped me, in the books which 
fell in my way, that there had been divisions 
and strifes in the church; but I saw and 
heard nothing of them in the world around 
me, and I felt as though nothing of them ex- 
isted. 

On the evening of my arrival at my new 
quarters, I was greatly struck with the tone 
and language of my host and hostess in speak- 
ing of religion. It was different from any 
thing I had ever heard before, and it puzzled 
me. Mrs. Hilson was so frequent in her 
scriptural allusions, and phrases of piety, as 
to introduce them sometimes very improper- 
ly and irreverently; but in her husband there 
seemed a constantly half-suppressed sneer, 
and disposition to throw ridicule on the sub- 
ject. Both were so different from the serious, 
manly, intelligible, and reverent manner in 
which I had always seen the subject treated 
at home, that I was not a little perplexed to 
know what to think. One of the school com- 



19 



mittee, who was also deacon of the church, 
came in during the evening, to see the new 
master, and give his instructions. As I was 
too diffident to talk much, and the deacon had 
but little to say on the business of my profes- 
sion, the conversation took a turn but little 
different from a catechetical lecture. After 
many common-place questions, such as an 
inquisitive stranger naturally puts first, dea- 
con Lumbard inquired what were the opin- 
ions of my father. I felt ashamed not to be 
able to give a direct answer, and waited for 
him to put the question in a different shape. 
u I mean," said the deacon, " is he Armin- 
ian or Calvinist?" This question was hardly 
more intelligible to me than the former; but 
thinking it would never do to say I did not 
understand him, and feeling tolerably confi- 
dent that I should speak the truth, I replied, 
" I believe he is an Arminian." The deacon 
gave a hem! of surprise, and walked across 
the room. Mrs. Hilson dropped her knitting, 
and fixed upon me a look of sad concern; 
and her husband stopped poking the fire, and 
turned round with a half merry stare, as if to 
know whether he had heard aright. I felt 
my face color suddenly all over, and I thought 



£0 



I must have made some dreadful blunder. 
No one spoke for some time. At length the 

deacon said "An Arminian! — we don't 

think much of Arminians here." The tone 
of his voice went to my heart, and the sound 
of it rung in my ears for weeks. I never 
had before witnessed this abhorrence of a 
name; and such a crowd of feelings rose 
within me, that I could do nothing but re- 
main silent and confused. Mr. Hilson re- 
lieved me by saying, "But, deacon, there 
may be some good men amongst the Armin- 
ians." That's more than you know, or I 
either," said the deacon, " But you think 
it's possible they may be saved, don't you?" 
rejoined my host. " It is not promised," re- 
plied the deacon; " it is not in the covenant; 
and as they do not hold the true faith > they 
are certainly in a dangerous way. I should 
not expect I could be saved myself, if I was 
one of them." "But all things are possible 
with God," said Mrs. Hilson mildly. " True," 
said the deacon; " and if any of his elect be 
in this error, he will snatch them from it be- 
fore they die." 

The course which conversation had thus 
taken, led to the statement of all the tenets 



of Calvinism, to which I listened with amaze- 
ment, sometimes mingled with horror; for 
many things were so new and strange, so 
apparently contradictory, so repugnant to my 
most cherished feelings of religion, that I 
seemed to be in some region of romance, 
rather than among Christians. Of one thing* 
I felt certain, that if I had wrongly called 
my father an Arminian, at least he was not 
a Calvinist. But what is there so much an 
object of horror in an Arminian ? why so 
difficult for him to be saved? — I was lost in 
the perplexity of my own thoughts. 

Before the deacon went, he proposed to 
join the family in prayer. He first read the 
eighth chapter of Romans, and then poured 
out a long and earnest prayer, of great ve- 
hemence and minuteness, in which I was 
made an object of special supplication. The 
loudness and fervor of this act of worship, so 
different from the calm and subdued tone of 
my father, thrilled and agitated me with a 
new feeling; and when the deacon, as he 
went out, put his hand solemnly on my head, 
and, with an affectionate emphasis, wished 
me God's blessing and success in my new 
office, I was overpowered, and burst into 



tears. I cannot pretend to explain my feel- 
ings. They were a chaos of confusion. — 
I was young, every thing was novel, my sit- 
uation was such as to render me uncommon- 
ly susceptible, and religion was presented to 
me in a form altogether new, and with some- 
thing inexplicably solemn in the manners of 
its professors. Those who have been ever 
placed in a situation in any measure similar, 
will understand something of the feelings 
which kept me many hours awake that night; 
and will easily perceive that I could come to 
no conclusion, except that of writing to my 
father as soon as possible, to inquire what 
was an Arminian, and what he himself was. 
Being quieted by this determination, and com- 
forted by mv prayers, I at last fell asleep. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Under some circumstances, the feelings I 
have named would soon have passed away, 
and my mind have returned to its usual state. 
But my situation was such as to keep me 



23 



agitated and harassed in spirit for a long 
season. I however always have seen cause 
to rejoice in that trial of my faith, and to 
render thanks to my heavenly Father, who 
, thus established, strengthened, and settled 
me in the true and living way. 

It was expected of the master that he 
should pray in the school, morning and even- 
ing. I knew it to be the custom, and had 
been greatly disturbed in the anticipation of 
being called to its performance ; for, as I 
have said, my natural diffidence was ex- 
treme. As the time drew near, the dread 
of it weighed upon my mind with an oppres- 
sion which I cannot describe; and when the 
moment came, upon the first morning, my 
resolution failed me, and I commenced the 
ordinary business without a prayer. This, 
however, was no relief, for I felt that I had 
done wrong. My conscience severely re- 
proached me, and for several days I was 
made wretched by the struggle to overcome 
what I thought a sinful timidity and shrink- 
ing from religious duty, which could not fail 
to bring upon me the heavy displeasure of 
God. At length my religious sense of duty 
got the victory, and on Saturday morning, 



24 



I, for the first time in my life, addressed my 
Creator in the presence of fellow-beings. 

I was so engrossed by my own feelings in 
this affair, that it had not occurred to me 
that I might draw upon myself the displeas- 
ure of the village. It had not even suggest- 
ed itself to me, that what was done in school 
was knovvn abroad. I returned to my lodg- 
ings at noon, happy in the triumph I had 
gained over myself. I was hardly seated, 
when a gentleman entered, who was intro- 
duced to me as Mr. Reynolds, the minister 
of the parish. He saluted me coldly, and, 
after a momentary pause, began the con- 
versation by saying, with some sternness, 
"Young man, I understand that you do not 
pray in your school. The duty never was 
neglected before in this town; and if you 
are not sensible enough of its importance to 
attend to it, you are unfit for the place. — 
How can we expect a blessing on our chil- 
dren, if God be not remembered in their 
instructions; and how can he be fit to teach, 
who will not seek wisdom from above?" — - 

This unexpected address confounded me; 
and, after all that I had suffered in rny mind, 
was more than I could sustain. I burst into 



tears, and, as well as I was able, stated the 
exact truth. Mr. Reynolds was not a man 
to appreciate the diffidence which had caus- 
ed my error, and he rebuked me for yielding 
to it. He expressed his satisfaction, howev- 
er, that I had conquered it. " I have heard 
of your father," said he, " though I do not 
know him personally. I am not solicitous 
for the acquaintance of those who are not 
perfectly sound in their views; and I am not 
surprised that the religious faith in which he 
has educated you is too weak to overcome 
your fear of the world. Nothing but the 
genuine gospel can subdue that false pride of 
the natural heart. But I trust you will learn 
better. God has sent you here at a propi- 
tious season for the interests of your soul, 
and I do not doubt you will find it blessed to 
you. There is a powerful work of grace go- 
ing on amongst us. The Holy Spirit is evi- 
dently in the midst, and there is a great rat- 
tling among the dry bones. Our meetings 
are frequent, full, and solemn. You must 
attend them, of course, as many as you carl, 
and you will see such operations of divine 
power as are wonderful to behold." 

Much more, and more earnestly, he talked 

D 



26 

on this topic, and at length pressed me with 
close and trying questions respecting my own 
religious opinions and experience: and drew 
from me a minute account of negligences and 
failures, which he represented to me as glar- 
ing and dangerous defects. My conscience 
was a tender one, and easily joined in accu- 
sations against myself. I had a horror of dis- 
playing myself to greater advantage than the 
truth, which led me to conceal almost every 
thing in my religious character which he 
would have approved. I could not bring my- 
self to speak of those -secret exercises of my 
spirit, which I accounted sacred to the in- 
spection of Heaven. Mr. Reynolds argued 
warmly, and warned me earnestly. His tone 
of expostulation was powerful in itself, as 
well as new to me. T felt it to my heart's 
core. My timid spirit shrunk and trembled. 
He left me in a state of amazement and anxi- 
ety, which robbed me of the perfect posses- 
sion of my faculties for the remainder of the 
day. 

In the afternoon, when, of course, I was 
unengaged, several friends of my host called 
in, who were interested in the religious state 
of the village, and made it the subject of their 



m 

conversation. They talked of the meetings, 
which had been held, of the cases of those 
who had been affected, and described at 
length the situation and exercises of some of 
the converts. A wholly novel scene was 
thus unveiled to me. Religion and religious 
feelings were presented in a new light. — 
And the eagerness with which the matter 
was discussed, the breathless curiosity and 
sympathy expressed in the eye, the flushed 
cheek, and the impatient attitudes of speak- 
ers and listeners, were calculated to make a 
deep impression upon a novice like myself. 
The comparison of this exhibition with what 
I had always seen, and reverenced, and lov- 
ed as true religion, perplexed and distressed 
me. I could gain no peace after many hours 
of anxious thinking, but by remembering that 
longer observation would teach me what was 
right, and that it was my duty to wait patient- 
ly. I gave myself, therefore, to the reading 
of the Scriptures, and at length laid myself 
down calmly to await the opening of the sab- 
bath day. 

On this occasion, and on thousands since 
I have derived peace from prayer, when ev- 
ery thing else conspired to vex and distress 



2$ 



me: — a proof of itself, that devotion of spirit 
is the essence of true religion ; and that he 
who has this, cannot be lost to God, nor be 
a stranger to his favor, however he may err 
in controverted truths. 



CHAPTER V. 

It is impossible for me to follow minutely 
my recollections of this memorable winter. — 
They would fill a large volume, instead of 
the few sheets which my trembling hand is 
able to write. It must suffice to say, that 
the new scenes into which I was thrown, 
continued to be occasions of severest perplex- 
ity and anxiety for many weeks. I had been 
bred religiously, I had been scrupulously 
conscientious, I had thought myself a lover of 
God and man, and had rejoiced in the hope of 
heaven. But my religion had been noiseless 
and secret. I had seldom conversed respect- 
ing it, except at particular moments with my 
father. I had never been excited by crowds 



29 



assembled, nor had I ever been conscious of 
any extraordinary change in my dispositions, 
or feelings, or life. I had gone on quietly 
from childhood to youth, conscientiously, but 
calmly, and with no display of zeal. I had 
seen in my father precisely the same opera- 
tion of religion which I had witnessed in my- 
self, except that it was far more perfect. I 
had thought this the true Christian character; 
and although often I had sighed over my im- 
perfections, yet I never had suspected that I 
was wrong in principle. 

But if what I now saw and heard were 
the genuine exhibition of religion, then I had 
been entirely and wofully deceived. If I 
must believe what was perpetually urged in 
my ears, then I was only a hypocrite, with- 
out Christ, and without hope. Nothing can 
exceed the distress with which this thought 
was attended. Many nights did I pass sleep- 
less and weeping with uncontrollable anguish 
of spirit. I became almost unfit for any duty. 
My thoughts preyed on my health, till my 
robust body wasted under the torture of the 
mind, and my cheek was pale and sunken. 

For why, thought I, should I not believe 
all that I see and hear? I cannot denv the 



30 



existence of the sincerest, heartiest religion 
here. Earth cannot contain a purer and 
meeker spirit than my hostess possesses; 
and where is there more real and actuating 
piety than in deacon Lumbard, though he 
be a little narrow; and where a nobler be- 
nevolence, and more solemn concern for 
Christianity, than in Mr. Reynolds, though 
he be a little rough? and then how general 
and deep is the religious impression that 
prevails — how serious, how anxious, how de- 
vout is the whole village — how indefatigable 
in teaching and learning — what a sense of 
the evil of sin, and dread of the Divine dis- 
pleasure — and not my own father could dis- 
cover more anxiety for my good than my 
friends do here. 

Yet, while I thus looked with reverence 
upon the zeal and piety I witnessed, I could 
not listen to the representations of gospel 
doctrine, which were perpetually made, with- 
out a certain horror. This, I was told, was 
an infallible sign of an unrenewed heart; 
and this served to aggravate my distress. — 
I never had studied controversy, nor heard 
it preached; but my father had always impli- 
ed something verv different from what I now 



31 



heard, and I could not reconcile the repre- 
sentations I now met, with the impressions 
I had received from the Bible. My blood 
chilled when I heard the arbitrary decree of 
election announced, and, connected with it, 
the joy of the righteous in the sufferings of 
the wicked. I was most distressingly be- 
wildered in the contradictions about deprav- 
ity and accountability, irresistible grace, in- 
voluntary faith, and changes rung, without 
end, on justification, adoption, sanctification, 
and imputation. It was a wilderness to me. 
I turned on every side, and could find no 
relief. If I had only seen these things in 
books, I should have passed them by as wild 
speculations. But I found them rilling the 
minds and thoughts of men, whose religious 
zeal was more imposing to my mind than any 
thing I had ever met with- men whom I 
honored and loved, who treated me with 
assiduous kindness, and who assured me, 
with the earnestness of the most solemn as- 
severation, that they built all their religion 
and all their hope on these doctrines, and 
that they could conceive of no salvation on 
any other ground. Thus beset, what could 
1 do? Who would wonder if I had yielded* 1 



32 

I at length told those who had interested 
themselves most warmly in my behalf, that 
there was but one course for me to take, 
namely, to examine the scriptures anew with 
fresh care, and abide by the result. To this 
proposal they warmly assented, not doubt- 
ing, as they said, that the Holy Ghost would 
teach me ; and they left me with solemn 
prayer to pursue this design. 

I look back to the execution of this pur- 
pose with highest gratitude and satisfaction. 
Every leisure minute found me at my Bible, 
and the morning often broke while I was yet 
studying. Earnest were my prayers for 
light, and sincere my wish to be instructed; 
and He who heareth prayer heard me, en- 
lightened me, and gave me a happy confi- 
dence in the result of my labor. My opin- 
ions became fixed and grounded on the 
sure testimony of God ; and I no longer felt 
embarrassment at the very opposite repre- 
sentations of gospel truth which were pre- 
vailing around me. They could still some- 
times blind my eyes for a moment with the 
dust of metaphysical subtlety ; but the breath 
of the divine word soon blew it away, and 
I saw clearlv. 



ss 



I now became tranquil and happy. My 
cheerfulness of spirit returned, and with it 
health. My anxieties ended in a serene and 
settled peace, no more to be disturbed by the 
tumult round about me. I came out of the 
trial in every respect the better for having 
passed through it. My opinions were more 
clearly defined and more solidly grounded. 
My devout feelings were become deeper and 
more ardent. While, at the same time, my 
intimacy with the sentiments and characters 
of those who differed from me gave me a 
juster view of them, and a more real regard 
for them, than under any other circumstanc- 
es I could have attained. This has been 
of incalculable benefit to me through life. 
I have been preserved by it from a great 
deal of false and censorious judging, and 
enabled to discriminate between the merits 
and weakness of my more orthodox brethren, 
so as to maintain for them a sincere respect 
and unchanging charity. And I have al- 
ways found that those are least bigoted, who 
are best acquainted with those whom they 
oppose. Nothing destroys uncharitableness 
and censoriousness so certainly, as an inti- 
macy with the habitual feelings and char- 



34 



acters of men of other sects. Bigotry is the 
offspring of ignorance. 

Such was the end, and such, in few words, 
have been the consequences of the scenes 
which I have described. But my trials were 
not yet over. My own mind was satisfied, but 
others were dissatisfied ; and I was doomed 
to endure coldness, reproach, suspicion, and 
alienation from many who had been forward 
to instruct me, and who had professed the 
warmest and most disinterested friendship. 
I was made the subject of village gossip and 
scandal ; a thousand false and calumnious 
reports were spread abroad ; and I became 
little better than a heathen and a publican 
to the zealots, who, a few weeks before, 
seemed ready to sacrifice even their lives 
for me. But of these things I must speak 
in another chapter. 



CHAPTER VI 

The trials to which I alluded in rny last 
chapter, as coming upon me in consequence 
of my decision in regard to religion, were of 



35 



several sorts. I can name them but in few 
words. I had supposed that all who profess- 
ed a friendship for me, and had so zealously 
interested themselves in my behalf, would re- 
joice with me in the relief of mind I had gain- 
ed, even though they might have wished that 
my conclusions had been nearer to their 
own. But in this I was disappointed. From 
the moment it became known in what manner 
my concern of mind had terminated, and that 
I was not to be brought out as a convert after 
their fashion ; there was a manifest change 
in the manners of many toward me. Instead 
of cordiality I found coldness, instead of a 
welcome I met a repulse. And I soon found 
that all their zeal for my soul's welfare was 
little more at bottom than a desire to have 
the eclat of the schoolmaster's conversion ; 
that there was a grievous disappointment, not 
at the danger in which my soul was placed, 
but in this frustration of a party object. I 
had too much proof of this to fear that I charge 
them wrongfully. 

But this was not the case with all. Some 
were truly and benevolently afflicted for my 
own sake. Amongst these was my excellent 
hostess, Mrs. Hilson. I had all along held 



36 



the most free communication with her; she 
knew the whole state of my mind, and acted 
toward me the part of a mother. She was 
too gentle and meek to be bigoted ; but as 
all her own rich treasures of religious com- 
fort and hope were built on the doctrines she 
had been taught, and they were dearly asso- 
ciated with every pious and benevolent sen- 
timent of her soul, she very naturally could 
conceive of no real religious happiness from 
any different source. When she found that 
I could not draw from this, she was troubled, 
for she thought there was none other. She 
did not question my sincerity, but lamented 
my blindness in not seizing what, from her 
oivn experience, she knew to be the only se- 
cret of happiness. Wiser persons than she 
have made the same mistake of trying ail 
others by their own experience; while, in 
fact, men's experiences differ as much as 
their faces. 

I shall never forget the kind and tender 
interest she expressed toward me to the last 
day of my residence in the village. She was 
in all rny solicitudes a faithful friend. To 
her I could unbosom myself without restraint, 
and find relief from her sympathy. Our 



37 



hearts could feel and pray together, howev- 
er we might vary in our creeds. And to 
the last of her life, while her friends and my 
friends were zealously accusing each other 
of corrupting the whole gospel, she ceased 
not to fee\, that there might be Christians 
who were not Calvinists; and I, for her sake, 
have always been able to see the spirit of 
the gospel reigning even among those whose 
speculations were most hostile to its truths. 
Indeed, who that has ever formed an inti- 
mate acquaintance beyond the narrow pale 
of his own sect, does not feel the wicked 
meanness of that bigotry which confines pi- 
ety and salvation to those who agree with 
himself ? 

" I still hope," said Mrs. Hilson, the eve- 
ning before I returned to my father's house ? 
" I still hope and trust, that you will see 
reason to think differently." 

"I pray that I may," said I, " if I am 
wrong; I have no wish but to learn and fol- 
low the truth; and I say sincerely, that I 
think I could in a moment embrace any opin- 
ion which could be proved to be of divine 
authority. You have yourself seen how anx- 

E 



38 

ious I have felt, and how diligently I have 
sought." 

" Certainly, certainly," she replied; "you 
have done your duty well, and I think God 
will not leave so sincere a soul in darkness. 
It is this that makes me sure you will, 
by and bye, be brought right. We must 
wait His good time." 

" But why," said Mr. Hilson, who was a 
blunt, good-natured man, " why, Betsey, 
should you wish master Anderson to change ? 
I am sure there is not a cleverer, honester 
man, nor better master to be found. And as 
for his religion, he's as serious and prayerful, 
and studies his bible as hard as any of them, 
though to be sure, he is not for making such 
a noise about it. Now to my mind, this is 
the right way; and I am sure, that if any 
body could make me a Christian, it would be 
just this Mr. Anderson. And his quiet sort 
of religion, now, would do more to work up- 
on the minds of one half the people here, 
than all the stir that's been made this winter. 
Why, there's a great many been driven away 
from all kinds of religion by the confusion 
we've had about it. I believe 1 should have 
feeen myself, if it had not been for the mas- 



39 

ter. And there's many a one that will nev- 
er get over his disgust, but is made, I war- 
rant it, profane for life." 

" You astonish me," said I. for this was 
entirely new to me ; " it is not conceivable 
that men should be so unreasonable. What, 
fly off to irreligion, because their neighbors 
are so engaged in religion ? They must be 
very ill-disposed persons." 

"No," replied he ; " not so ill-disposed 
neither ; some very conscientious men have 
been affected in this way ; and if I was to 
speak my mind, I should say that this stir 
has cooled as many friends to religion as it 
has made." 

"Husband, husband," cried Mrs. Hilson, 
" how can you say so ? I am truly ashamed 
of you." 

" Look here, my dear," said he, " who is 
likely to know most of it : you, who see on- 
ly one side, or I, who see both sides ? Now 
I know all that's going on, and all that's 
said, every where in the village ; while you 
only know what passes at meeting and 
among go-to-meeting folks ; and I can tell 
you, beyond all doubt, that the devil has 
gained some disciples as well as Christ. I'll 



40 

tell you a few things. I've beard more 
swearing, and seen more drinking and ill- 
temper amongst the men, because of this 
thing, than I ever knew in the village be- 
fore in my life ; and from some very reputa- 
ble folks too. There's the Joneses and the 
Malcolms have not been calm this two 
months ; and there's no doubt their wives 
would do more for religion by staying at 
home and making their houses happy with 
it, than by running away and causing their 
husbands and children to hate it. Then, 
besides those that are hurt in this way, you 
know there are some of the converts that 
are said to be none the better since their 
zeal has cooled. You know how ## and *** 
and # * # * turned out ; and there are more 
too." 

" You ought not to triumph over this," 
said I. 

" And I do not," said he ; " but there 
are them that do ; and it has afforded 
more joy and jests to infidels and blasphem- 
ers than I can tell you of. jSow does not 
this do harm to real religion ? And would 
not it all have been prevented by permitting 
matters to go on quietly and soberly as in 



41 

times past ? For, take five years together, 
there would have been as many Christians 
made in the usual way, as by all this extra- 
ordinary movement ; while at the same time 
none of this extraordinary evil would have 
been done. This is not all. It is incredi- 
ble what sin has been committed in the way 
of slander and lying, and that by very pious 
people too. I'll tell you what reports have 
been spread about you, master Anderson, 
just by way of specimen. First, it got 
about that you were under deep concern of 
mind, and had written home to your father, 
who told you not to be troubled, for the peo- 
ple were mad, and religion would spoil you 
for a schoolmaster. That you became af- 
terward more earnest, and when you could 
get no comfort from your father's principles, 
he sent you to Mr. Reynolds, and you found 
peace. That then your father, too, became 
anxious, and came to see Mr. Reynolds, and 
confessed to him that he had never felt re- 
ligion, and was more than half an infidel - y 
and that he was converted and went home, 
and got up a revival in his own parish. All 
this and much more was made up out of the 
whole cloth, and circulated, as so much gos- 

E 2 



42 



pel, by those who knew it was all false. And 
when it was discovered that your mind was 
settled another way, then it was said, and 
is believed to this day, that you have got 
another bible, different from ours ; and that 
a good part of the time you pretended to be 
studying the scriptures, you were playing 

cards in your room with R and 

E . For a whole day it was be- 
lieved that you had told the children it was 
all nonsense to pray in the school, and you 
should do it no longer. I could tell you a 
great deal more of the same sort ; and so 
you must not wonder that some folks think 
there is no religion in what bears so much 
bad fruit." 

Mrs. Hilson appeared as much discon- 
certed at this disclosure, as I was amazed. 
She said, however, that it was fair to look 
on both sides, and count the wheat in the 
field, as well as the tares. " True," said 
her husband ; u but will every body do that ? 
Most persons will not do it ; and, conse- 
quently, most persons will be injured." 

u But you and I must do it," said I. 
" Religion is a solemn reality, whatever im- 
perfections there may be in its friends ; and 



43 

surely you will not, on account of those im- 
perfections, refuse to strive for your own sal- 
vation." 

Mr. Hilson has since told me, that this 
sentiment struck him more forcibly than any 
preaching he had ever heard. I am happy 
to add, that he became, in after life, one of 
the most enlightened and sincere Christians 
I have ever known. 

I parted from my friends the next morn- 
ing, amidst the most affectionate wishes. 
Deacon Lumbard came to give me his part- 
ing blessing, and to say that he did not 
doubt he should yet see me all which he 
could wish, for he loved me too well to think 
otherwise. As I passed the minister's door, 
I stopped to bid him farewell. He shook 
me by the hand, saying he loved me none 
the less for my honesty, and doubted not 
God had a blessing for me. The kindness 
of these two good men was a cordial to my 
spirits. I left them better and happier for 
having known them ; rejoicing that there 
was a better world, where imperfection would 
be done away, and where the holy light of 
unveiled truth would dissipate the little cloud 
that now hovered between us. 



44 



CHAPTER VII. 



My college lite, on which I now entered, 
was like that of many other young men. I 
applied myself zealously to the duties requir- 
ed of me, and became ambitious of distinc- 
tion. My thirst for knowledge increased, 
and, with it, my desire of eminence. I al- 
lowed myself little time for sleep or recrea- 
tion. I denied myself even food, that I 
might sit at my books without the necessity 
of exercise to help digestion. I know not 
how it was, but gradually and insidiously 
literary distinction became my ruling pas- 
sion. My bible was consulted less frequent- 
ly, my seasons of devotion were hurried 
over, and even the worship of the sabbath 
came at last to be attended by me with little 
interest or feeling. 

I was sometimes uneasy at perceiving the 
change which had taken place in my affec- 
tions, and felt alarmed for the result. But 
I satisfied myself with saying, that as soon 
as I should be relieved from my present hur- 
ry, or have finished the study I had now on 
hand, I should have leisure to resume my re- 



45 



ligious vigilance. But this leisure did not 
come, and I suffered myself still to go on. — 
I quieted the remonstrances of my mind with 
the persuasion, that a man cannot feel equal- 
ly engaged at all times on any subject ; and 
that, at any rate, I was preparing myself for 
the duties of life, and why was not this as 
acceptable service as the performance of my 
religious duties ? Then if conscience an- 
swered, that the preparation for future duty 
is no excuse for neglecting present duty, I 
stifled the suggestion by burying my thoughts 
in study. 

I tremble to this day to think of the hazard 
I was running, and in how dreadful a ruin it 
might have ended, if it had not pleased God 
to send me a rebuke. I had already enter- 
ed my senior year, and with a heart full of 
ambition was pressing on to realize, in the 
honors before me, the darling object of my 
hope. I had overplied my powers, and they 
gave way. My body refused to sustain the 
labors of my mind, and after four weeks' se- 
vere illness, it was thought I must sink to 
the tomb. 

Of the early part of my sickness I have no 
recollection, except of a confused feeling of 



46 

disappointment and vexation at being thus 
stopped and frustrated in my career. It 
seems to me like some long dream, in which 
I was struggling with envious and malicious 
foes, who were conspiring against my im- 
provement and reputation. I seemed at 
length to awake from the dream, and found 
myself a feeble and helpless man, stretched 
upon my bed, and attended by friends whose 
anxious countenances revealed to me their 
fears. 

" What is that bell for ?" was the first 
question I asked. 

" It is tolling for the Exhibition," said my 
friend. 

" The Exhibition," said I, starting with 
surprise ; " how long have I been sick ?'' 

u Nearly four weeks." 

" Exhibition !" I repeated — " and I am 
not ready ; I cannot be there ; — when I had 
so depended on it — so longed for it — and 

here am I shut out from . When shall 

I be able to go out, Thompson ?" 

" You must lie still," said Thompson, 
" you are too weak to talk ; keep yourself 
quiet." And he withdrew from the bed. 

Thompson's voice and manner struck me, 



47 



and I at once suspected the truth. Never 
shall I forget the feeling that came over me, 
as the conviction flashed across my mind 
that I was dangerously ill. A cold thrill ran 
through my frame, and the sweat issued upon 
my forehead. " And is this," thought I, 
" the end of my hopes ? Is it all to end in 
an early grave and a forgotten memory ? — 
Spare me, O God, that I may recover 
strength before I go hence to be seen no 
more." 

As soon as my first surprise was over, I 
set myself to collect my thoughts as well as 
I was able, and to jprepare my mind for the 
event. And now the wide extent of my 
folly became visible at once. I saw the full 
measure of my negligence, and the whole 
unworthiness of my delusion. I felt the 
emptiness of that ambition for which I had 
sacrificed my religious affections, and would 
have given the world to return to that spirit- 
ual frame which I had possessed two years 
before. Then I thought of my privileges, 
my opportunities, the discipline I had passed 
through, the early instructions of my mother, 
the faithful counsels of my father ;« — and as 
I thought of him, I involuntarily spoke out, 
w Has my father been sent for, Thompson?" 



48 

Thompson looked at me with surprise, 
and, after a few moments' hesitation, an- 
swered, Yes, and that he was expected to 
arrive to-morrow. 

To-morrow came, and at the expected 
hour my father entered the chamber. He 
had evidently come from a hurried journey, 
and wore a countenance of anxiety and grief. 
I held out my hand, and he took it without 
speaking. We both were thinking of a sep- 
aration, and, for some moments, could not 
trust ourselves with our voices. At length I 
broke silence, for I had been fortifying my- 
self for the interview, and had my powers 
under my control. 

u My father,'' said I, u I rejoice to see 
you. I know why you are come, and shall 
feel the easier for your presence. You led 
me in the beginning of life ; and if my life 
must close, it is a consolation to lean on you 
at the last." 

" The will of God be done," said he, " I 
had hoped it would be otherwise ordered, 
but the will of God be done. I am glad to 
find you look upon it so calmly. Your re- 
ligion supports you, as I thought it would." 

" I trust in God's mercy," said I ; " T 






49 



need it. 0, my father, you do not know 
how foolish I have been, and how nearly I 
have lost myself in the love of worldly hon- 
ors." And I told him the state of my 
mind for some time previous. u But," I 
continued, " I have humbled myself before 
God, and cast myself on his compassion. I 
have thrown away my false ambition, and 
renewed my vows and prayers, and I hope 
I have found pardon and peace. I have 
given up every thing to my Maker, and 
trust I may depart in hope. Father, give 
me your blessing." 

He knelt down by my bed and prayed. 
My soul was thrilled by the sound of that 
voice, so familiar and so loved, and a thou- 
sand tender recollections crowded upon my 
mind. I was refreshed and strengthened as 
I listened, and lifted nearer to heaven. 

A long silence continued after he had 
ended, while we both pursued our own re- 
flections. At length I untied from my neck 
the locket containing my mother's hair, and 
handed it to my father. " I wish to leave 
this," said I, " to my sister Jane, with the 
same injunction with which my dear mother 
gave it to me. Tell her that it has been a 

F 



50 



talisman to me in many a difficulty and temp- 
tation ; and that if I had never suffered my- 
self to be unmindful to it, I should have been 
spared the only pain I feel at this time. Bid 
her, therefore, wear it in memory of her de- 
ceased brother and mother, and as a pledge 
that she will never pass a day without prayer; 
remembering, that if we cannot see how she 
fulfils the pledge, God does ; and the day is 
coming when we shall know also." 

I was too feeble to pursue the conversa- 
tion, and soon became faint. I thought my- 
self dying. After I revived, I could catch, 
from the occasional whispers in the room, 
that it was thought I could not live through 
another night. I had nothing further which 
I wished to say, and I laid quietly, in the 
perfect possession of my powers, waiting the 
signal to depart. 0, the indescribable su- 
blimity of that hour ! Words cannot picture 
the solemnity of feeling which pervaded my 
mind, as my thoughts flew, in the pressure 
and excitement of the season, with the rapid- 
ity of lightning, to the past and to the fu- 
ture, — to my own life, to the truths of Chris- 
tianity, to the perfections of God, to the 
promises of Christ, to the prospects of heav- 



51 

en, — and the whole was framed, with an in- 
tense energy of which I can now hardly con- 
ceive, into a perpetual mental prayer. Thus 
I was occupied until sleep overcame me, and 
I was lost in forgetfulness. 

It was ordained that we should be deceiv- 
ed. He who had brought me low, intended 
but to chasten and heal me ; and when I had 
learned all that a death-bed could teach, he 
again breathed into my frame, and bade me 
live to praise him. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Seek first the kingdom of God, and the 
righteousness thereof, and all these things shall 
be added unto you. 

These words were perpetually present to 
my mind, during my recovery from the ill- 
ness which I have mentioned, and gave rise 
to much salutary reflection, which helped to 
establish my resolution for the future. I 
felt how easily the one thing needful slips 
away from those who cease to seek it, and 



52 

iiow liable even a religious man is to lose 
the substance of happiness in pursuing the 
shadow. I persuaded myself that if the 
prime object of duty were secured, a man 
could never feel any thing actually wanting 
to his well-being ; for it is very evident that 
the pursuit of the highest duty and most per- 
manent good, is consistent with the pursuit 
arid enjoyment of every other object really 
desirable. 

I experienced the truth of this at once, in 
returning to the studies of my class. My 
great struggle had been to subdue my inor- 
dinate ambition. It had interfered with my 
religion, and must be sacrificed. It was 
a dear sacrifice, but I took my resolution, 
and it was performed. The consequence, I 
supposed, would be, that I should fall from 
my standing as a scholar, and graduate with 
less reputation than I had coveted. This 
was a mortifying anticipation ; but better 
risk my scholarship than my religion, thought 
I, and I summoned firmness to brave the re- 
sult. This result was quite other than I 
expected. In proportion as I became indif- 
ferent to my reputation for mere reputation's 
sake, I found myself able to study and recite 



53 



with greater ease and self-possession. For- 
merly my extreme anxiety to do well, and 
my morbid dread of doing ill, had occasion- 
ed an irritability and hurry of spirits, which 
often threw me off my self-command, and 
produced the very evils I sought to avoid. 
But now, having little desire except to do 
my duty, I was cool, collected, and preserved 
the full command of my powers. So that, to 
my surprise, I acquitted myself better than 
formerly, and rose in my class, rather than 
fell. A certain portion of every day was sa- 
credly devoted to religious exercises and 
studies; and the time thus subtracted from 
classical pursuits was more than compensat- 
ed by the steadiness of mind and equanimity 
of feeling which it produced. 

Here, then, was the first neward of my re- 
newed fidelity. I was permitted to experi- 
ence, then, as I have always done since, 
that our religion has the promise of the life 
which now is, as well as of that which is to 
come. How many deceive themselves, and 
are miserable from not knowing this ! They 
sell themselves to the world, and take the 
world's wages ; which, at the moment of 
death, they are compelled to resign, and then 
f2 



54 



have nothing which they can carry hence. 
Whereas, in the service of God, they might 
have no less enjoyed what earth affords, be- 
sides all the present and future satisfactions 
of the soul, which are far richer and purer. 
There is no state of the mind so happy in 
itself, and at the same time so fitted for suc- 
cess in the duties of the world, and for con- 
tentment amid its difficulties, as the tranquil 
and composed frame of habitual devotion. 

From this time my resolution was taken 
to devote myself to the ministry. There had 
always been a prevailing desire in my mind 
to engage in this office *, but sometimes my 
distrust of myself, and sometimes my occu- 
pation in other studies, had prevented me 
from making an absolute decision. But my 
late experience* had so wrought upon me, 
that I could think of no other occupation 
consistent with duty. I suspected it to be 
my father's wish, though he had never inti- 
mated it to me. When I named to him my 
determination, he expressed his hearty ap- 
probation. "This," said he, " is what I 
have looked forward to with earnest hope. — 
It has been from your childhood my constant 
wish and prayer, that I might see you joined 



$5 



with me in the great work of the gospel. I 
rejoice that the day has come, and that, 
without one doubt or fear, I may encourage 
you to go on, and bid you God speed. Your 
faith and perseverance have been tested. 
You know what trial is, and will be able, 
from the wisdom of personal experience, to 
help others who are tried. Enter the work 
and prosper. You will still meet with trials 
severe and heavy; but He, in whose strength 
you have hitherto been safe, will always pro- 
vide a way of escape if you but seek it." 

I would that I had room to record all the 
instruction which he imparted on this and on 
other occasions, with the affectionate piety 
of a Christian minister, and the overflowing 
tenderness of a parent. I would that I had 
been more sensible, at the time, of their 
value, and how much it was enhanced by 
the fact, that I was not long to enjoy his in- 
tercourse. But for two precious years I did 
enjoy it. I was employed as teacher of the 
school in my native village, and lived and 
studied in the house of my birth. I was my 
parent's companion at home, and in his 
visits abroad. I read with him the most im- 
portant books, in my preparatory studies, and 



56 

we conversed familiarly on all topics of the- 
ology and morals. Happy and profitable 
were those days ! when I was permitted to 
cheer the declining path of him who gave me 
birth, at the same time that I was drawing 
from him treasures of ministerial experience, 
to guide me after he should be departed ! 



CHAPTER IX. 

The entrance on the ministry is a period 
of anxiety and excitement of spirit, to which 
no one can look back, even after the lapse 
of years, without a throb of emotion. To a 
conscientious man, who feels the weight and 
responsibility of the office, the exercises of 
that season are deep and trying. About to 
appear as the messenger of God's word to 
the souls of men, — to be the herald of eter- 
nal truths, — to be a fellow laborer with 
Christ in the work of human salvation, and 
the bearer of the prayers and intercessions 
of men to the mercy-seat of heaven; his 
spirit is oppressed, and trembling, and ready 



57 

to faint — for how can he discharge so various 
and awful vocations? But then, again, when 
he considers the incalculable importance of 
the work to which none other on earth is 
to be equalled; when he thinks of the honor 
of bearing part in it, the shame of drawing 
baek, and the wide field for doing good — his 
spirits become animated, and he girds him- 
self for the toil with alacrity and zeal. It 
seems as it were but yesterday, that I was 
passing through this alternation of hopes and 
fears, of exhilaration and despondency. I 
still see the chamber which I paced for 
hours, anxious and sleepless, night after 
night; and where I gradually gained resolu- 
tion to begin the sacred work. Forty -seven 
years are past and gone, but it is fresh as 
the memory of to-day. I have, in those 
years, passed through heavy vicissitudes of 
earthly lot, and waves of trouble have rolled 
over my heart, enough to obliterate from it 
©very trace of that early anxiety. But it 
abides vividly in my memory, and the old 
man of seventy-two feels over again as he 
writes, all the solicitudes of the youth of 
twenty-five. 

It was on the third of September, that af- 



58 



ter a ride of twenty miles, I reached the vil- 
lage where my father had recommended me 
to make the first trial of my gifts. I bore a 
letter from him in my pocket to Mr. Carver- 
dale, the infirm minister of the place, offer- 
ing my service to aid him on the sabbath. — 
The sun was just throwing its last beams up- 
on the spire of the meeting-house, as I came 
upon the little common where it stood, and 
cast my eyes around in search of the minis- 
ter's house. This is easily known in a 
country village, and I immediately rode up 
to a neat cottage, with a small yard before 
it, which stood just back of the meeting- 
house, and was almost lost amid the trees 
which threw their aged branches around and 
over it. The old gentleman was sitting in 
his arm chair at the open door, looking out 
upon the setting sun. I alighted, and ap- 
proached him with the letter in my hand. — 
While he was engaged in reading it, I had 
leisure to collect myself, and study the ap- 
pearance of a man whom I had not seen 
since I was a child, and to whom I was an 
entire stranger. He was a tall, thin man, 
whose few remaining hairs were white with 
the hoary frost of age. and his countenance 



59 

marked with years and suffering. But there 
was a majesty and serenity in it which struck 
me with awe, and would have become an 
apostle. I think St. John might have look- 
ed so, when he was carried into the church, 
as he approached his hundredth year, to re- 
peat his customary benediction, Little chil- 
dren love one another. 

"You are heartily welcome," said he, 
when he had finished the perusal of the let- 
ter; " and I thank your father for his kind- 
ness in sending you. But he was always 
kind, and I can present no better prayer for 
his son than that he may be like him. I 
was doubting if I should be able to speak to 
my poor people to-morrow. I am unusually 
feeble, I have sensibly decayed this week. 
I might not be able to address them. But 
now they will be instructed from younger 
lips. It will be enough for me to break to 
them the holy bread. I am glad to have all 
my strength for that. Who knows but it 
may be the last time?" 

I felt called upon to say something, and 
with the real diffidence which I felt, L said 
that I was very sorry he would not have a 
better substitute to-morrow. 



60 

" Young man," said he, "let me warn you 
against a trick of disparaging yourself in 
this way. It does not become the simplici- 
ty and sincerity of the ministerial character. 
You are in your Master's service, and should 
use such language to none but him. It may 
be modesty now, but it will become vanity; 
vanity in its most disgusting dress, the guise 
of humility. Think of nothing but to do 
your duty. Do that as well as you are able, 
and be not anxious to say or to hear in what 
manner it is done." 

This advice did me great good. It taught 
me to guard against that sensitiveness to 
the opinions of others, which is so apt to 
disorder the motives of action; and has sav- 
ed me perhaps from that painful and ridicu- 
lous habit, which [ have witnessed in some, 
of always speaking slightingly of what they 
do for the sake of hearing it praised. It be- 
comes the dignity of a preacher of the gos- 
pel not to speak of his labors at all, except 
to some confidential friend, and for the sake 
of improvement. 

" I do not mean to pain you," continued 
he, " for I have no reason to doubt your sin- 
cerity ; but I use an old man's privilege of 



plain speaking, to put you on your guard. — » 
My light is almost out, and I must do good 
while I can. I am as low in my horizon as 
yonder sun now is. But while I am here I 
would give light to the last. It has always 
been my prayer, that I might sink to my bed 
as that glorious luminary does now, useful to 
the latest moment, and unshadowed by a 
cloud. God save me from the empty, shat- 
tered remnant of existence, which would be 
a weariness to myself, and a burden to oth- 
ers. Yet I fear that the prayer will not be 
granted, and it will try my patience and faith 
to have it denied. But His will be done ! 
You," continued he, (i are like that sun in 
his rising, rejoicing in the prospect before 
you of a day of light and glory, of a work of 
beneficence and love, in which you shall 
cause righteousness and piety to bud and be- 
come fruitful. It is an excellent and most 
blessed work ! Enter it and prosper ! May 
God be your light, and honor you abundant- 
ly in the kingdom of his dear Son.'' 

He rose from his seat, and, leaning upon 
me, entered the room where the family werg 
sitting. " We always pray at sunsetting," 
said he. The ancient family bible wa?* 



62 

brought forward, from which a chapter was 
read, upon which he made a few remarks, 
and then uttered a fervent prayer. It seem- 
ed to come from a patriarch's lips, and to be 
instinct with the devotion of that future 
world, on whose borders he stood. 

We retired early to rest, and arose with 
the sun, on the morning of the sabbath. The 
trembling voice of the aged servant of Christ 
mingled with the early stirrings of the morn- 
ing breeze, and welcomed, in the animated 
accents of praise, the blessed recollections 
of holy time. His whole air was serene, 
tranquil, and thoughtful. He seated himself 
again by the door of his cottage, and remain- 
ed there, musing and conversing at intervals, 
until we were summoned to the public ser- 
vice. 

My attention had been so much diverted 
from myself, and my mind so interested in 
the conversation and character of this good 
old man, that I passed through the trial of 
my opening ministry with far happier feelings 
than I had anticipated. When the exercise 
was concluded, he arose in his place, and re- 
minded the church that the emblems of their 
Master's love awaited them. " Would to 



6:3 

God," said he, in his feeble, tremulous voice, 
while he turned his eyes around upon the 
congregation ; " would to God, that ye were 
all disposed and ready to partake of them. 
My infirmities warn me that this is the last 
time they will be dispensed by my hand. 
Ah, why are ye not all waiting to receive 
them ? For more than half a century have I 
broken this bread here. How often, in that 
long period, have I entreated and urged you 
all to come and partake. I have warned, 
and admonished, and pleaded with you, even 
unto tears. And yet how many of you suf- 
fer me to leave you, and carry up with me, 
when I go hence, the sad story that you have 
no mark of gratitude for a Saviour's love, no 
obedience for a Saviour's dying command. 
You are willing to oppress my last hours 
with the bitter thought, that for many of you 
I have labored in vain ; and, though I have 
loved you here, I may hardly hope to join 
you again in the eternal communion with 
the saints. Dear friends, let it not be thus. 
1 stand here to bid you farewell. Who of 
you is willing that it should be eternal ? Who 
of you would part, never to meet again ? I 
hope and pray for better things. I will hope 



$4 

that, although we have not set down togethtr 
here, we shall be permitted to do it hereaf- 
ter. And let me ask of you, for this once 
at least, this last opportunity, not to leave 
me : but remain, one and all, to witness, 
though you do not participate. Who can 
tell how it may please God to manifest him- 
self to you ? Who can tell, while we all join 
our prayers and devotions for the last time, 
what influence may descend to bless us r 
Who can tell but our remaining together 
now, may be the omen that we shall be pre- 
pared to meet in a higher state ?" 

The effect of this unexpected address, de- 
livered with quivering lips, and the piercing 
accents of deep and earnest feeling, was 
irresistible. Not one of the congregation 
left his place. The minister descended to 
the table, and an affecting service ensued, 
whose deep and touching solemnity I have 
never seen surpassed. Many there were, 
who, like myself, received impressions that 
never passed away. And many, I doubt 
not, will be found at the Supper of the Lamb 
in heaven, who, but for that hour's holy and 
overwhelming feeling, had never sat at his 
table on earth. 



6o 



CHAPTER X. 

It will not be thought surprising that, by 
the scene which I described in the last chap- 
ter, Mr. Carverdale was entirely exhausted. 
While the excitement of the occasion lasted, 
he looked and spoke with almost the anima- 
tion of youth. But, when it was over, he 
sank down weak, trembling, and nearly 
fainting. The old cords had been stretched 
more than they could bear, and lost their 
tone forever. When the people had dis- 
persed, he attempted to rise from his seat 
and follow them, but was unable. Several 
of his friends advanced to his assistance. 
iC The light is almost burned down," said 
he, in a voice scarcely audible ; " might it 
only go out here at the altar, how privileged 
I should be !" Some one expressed a hope 
that it might be yet continued for a season 
to the benefit of his church. He shook his 
head. " No," said he ; " and why should I 
wish it ? It is only a flickering, fitful flame. 
It may brighten a moment to-day, but will 
be dim again to-morrow, and cheer no one. 
No; my poor flock need a vigorous flame, 



> — a burning, and shining light, I aea wast- 
ed. And if it please my God soon to remove 
me to a place among the stars of the firma- 
ment, why should I lament, or why should 
you? For I have that hope; I thank God, I 
have that hope." 

This he said with frequent interruptions, 
showing that his spirit was stirring, though 
his body was weak. He seemed unable to 
say more, and was carried in the arms* of 
his friends to his house, and placed in bed. 
He fell into a sleep, which the physician de- 
clared to be the prelude of death, and which 
he said it would be useless and cruel to dis- 
turb by attempting to prolong life. " The 
machine," said he, " is worn out, and will 
gradually come to a stop." 

He remained in this state, apparently un- 
conscious of what was passing around him, 
until I was summoned to the afternoon ser- 
vice. In the same state I found him on my 
return. In the mean time, the report had 
obtained currency among his parishioners, 
that their minister was dying. With affec- 
tionate concern they crowded around his 
dwelling, and manifested the strongest sense 
of his worth, and liveliest gratitude for his 



67 

fast services. Never have I known eulogy 
more eloquent than that which I read in 
their tearful eyes, and whispering voices, as 
they stood silently waiting, or anxiously con- 
versing, before the door and beneath the 
windows. Their sound was distinctly heard 
in the chamber, as I stood with his friends 
beside his bed. It at length seemed to arouse 
him, and he opened his eyes. " What is 
this?" said he. 

u The people have come from meeting," 
it was replied, " and are anxious to know 
how you^do." 

" They are kind souls," replied the old 
minister; and, turning his eyes around as if 
looking for some one, he called me by name. 
I bent over him, and he took my hand.— 
" Go to them, my young friend; tell them I 
thank them for all their fidelity and kindness. 
Carry them my last farewell. Bid them re- 
member my last instructions; and God bless 
them." 

I went to the door, and beckoning to the 
several groups, collected them together, and 
spoke to them as I was desired. When J 
returned to the chamber, the good old man 
was taking leave of his friends, and to each 






68 

of them giving his blessing. He called foi 
me. He was exhausted, and could no more 
speak audibly. His lips moved, and I thought 
I would have given worlds to know what they 
would utter. After a few moments' silence 
he exerted himself again, and we understood 
him to ask that there might be prayers. I 
kneeled down, with his hand still in mine, 
and commended his spirit, in such words as 
I was able, to the great Father of mercy. — 
It was a solemn moment. There was a si- 
lence and awe like that of the tomb, inter- 
rupted only by the laborious breathing of 
the dying man, and the low voice of youthful 
supplication. When I had ended, he press- 
ed my hand, but said nothing. We feared 
that he would not speak again; but it was 
permitted us to hear his last words distinctly. 
For, when something had been said respect- 
ing the good man's support in death, he 
spoke out audibly, " The testimony of con- 
science, AND THE MERCY OF GoD IN CHRIST." 

This was his last effort. We stood silently 
watching for his departing breath, when, as 
the sun was going down, its beams forced 
their way through an opening amid the 
branches of the thick trees which grew be- 



69 



fore the windows, and fell full upon his fact, 
A smile came over his countenance, and, be- 
fore it had entirely passed away, he ceased 
to breathe. I remembered his conversation 
on the preceding evening, and rejoiced at 
his quiet departure. 

When it was known that their pastor was 
actually dead, all those of his parishioners 
who had not retired to their homes, pressed 
into the house to take a last look of one whom 
they had loved and reverenced so much. 
Not a word was spoken by any one in the 
chamber of death. The silent gaze, the 
tearful eye, and the cautious tread, evinced 
the impression which was upon every heart, 
and the feeling of awe with which the sleep 
of the patriarch was contemplated. 

My own feelings during these scenes it is 
impossible for me to describe. But I have 
always felt, that I had reason to thank God 
for appointing me to open my ministry in 
so singular and affecting a manner. The se- 
renity of aged piety, and the peace of a 
Christian death-bed, gave me impressions 
which helped still more to prepare me for 
my work. I am certain that for years this 
4ay was present almost constantly to my 



70 



mind, and endowed me with courage, forti- 
tude, and spirituality, which I might not 
otherwise have attained. 



CHAPTER XI. 

It was in less than a year after this, that I 
found myself occupying the place of that ven- 
erable old man, of whose last hours I had 
been so unexpectedly the attendant. It may 
readily be conceived, that with no ordinary 
feelings I took possession of the pulpit where 
I had heard the expiring sounds of his min- 
istry, and seated myself in the room where 
he had studied, and at the table upon which 
he had leaned and written for half a century. 
To my ardent view, every thing about me 
was sacred. I fancied there was inspiration 
in the very walls, and that I inhaled a good 
spirit from the very air in which the holy 
man had breathed. And while I studied in 
his books, and dipped my pen in his inkstand, 
— while I read from his Bible in the family 
circle which he had left, and in which I was 



71 

a boarder, and stood up to offer their daily 
devotions on the spot which his prayers had 
consecrated, I am sure that I felt a glow in 
my heart which more important circumstanc- 
es have oftentimes been incapable of produc- 
ing; — but which was nevertheless highly fa- 
vorable toward forming a frame of thought 
and feeling suited to my vocation. 

Indeed it rarely happens to a young man 
to begin the arduous work of the ministry 
under happier auspices. The circumstances 
of my lot and education had been so ordered, 
as constantly to excite and keep fresh the 
religious seniment. It had been stirred and 
animated by the frequent remarkable scenes 
through which I had passed. The manner 
of my introduction to my parish was calcu- 
lated to revive and strengthen, in no common 
degree, all the feelings I had ever experienc- 
ed, and all the resolutions I had ever made, 
in relation to the great duties of personal 
and pastoral religion. I cannot recall to 
mind this period, without an expression of 
devout gratitude to Him who appointed my 
lot, and in whose strength I have toiled on 
to this day. I have seen some of my breth- 
ren disheartened and sinking beneath their 



72 



load, the victims of a sickly sensibility; seme 
miserable in their work, because their hearts 
were not engaged in it ; and some losing 
their reputation and usefulness through in- 
dolence. But for myself, being always pos- 
sessed of bodily health, and heartily attach- 
ed to my duties, T never have found them 
burdensome and fatiguing. And I may say, 
that I never have found them so to any, 
except those who have wanted the spirit of 
their office. How shall I cease, then, to be 
thankful for the early instruction of those 
kind parents, and the severe infliction of 
that youthful discipline, which formed in me 
inclinations and desires which nothing could 
have gratified, but the labors of the sacred 
office ! They have been my pleasure ; and 
nothing else would have afforded me pleas- 
ure. 

I soon found, however, that there is much 
to damp the ardor of enthusiastic expecta- 
tion, with which a young man, ignorant of 
the world, enters upon his career. I can 
hardly help sighing now, when I call to 
mind the many fair visions which were cru- 
elly dissipated by my further acquaintance 
with mankind ; and the severe and mortify- 



ing rebukes by which my open-hearted inex- 
perience learned prudence and caution. It 
1 was a great shock to me to discover, so soon 
as I did, the necessity of distrusting appear- 
ances. This was one of the first lessons 
which I learned by intercourse with my 
parish— perhaps one of the most important I 
ever learned. Certainly none has influenc- 
ed me more in my whole life since; none 
perhaps has made me at times so unhappy. 

Like other young persons, I trusted to 
the good show which any one made, and 
confided implicitly in all that any one might 
say of himself. I delighted in the warm ex- 
pression of religious feeling, and was ready 
to give up my heart to it, wherever I might 
find it. I could not believe that zealous 
profession could be made by any who was 
insincere at heart. It was a great blow to 
me to be undeceived. 

There were few men in the town more as- 
siduous and kind in their attentions to me, 
after my ordination, than Josiah Dunbar. 
He recommended himself by his punctual 
attendance at meeting, and by his fondness 
to call upon me and converse on religious 
subjects. He entered fully into the history 

H 



of his own experience, and drew from me 
the relation of my own. His appearance 
was austere, his manners simple and sol- 
emn, his voice a little whining, and his eyes 
were cast in humility upon the ground. His 
age was about fifty; and I thought that no 
young man was ever so blest in the confi- 
dence and advice of a devout parishioner. 

I found, however, that he was not popular 
in the village; and that the worldly, sober 
part of the inhabitants, especially, spoke of 
him rather slightingly. This grieved me; 
but I accounted for it by a remark which 
he himself once, or rather often made, with 
a deep sigh and solemn shake of the head, 
— " Ah, there is nothing that the world can 
find lovely in the children of God. They 
are always despised and trodden upon." — 
My experience has since taught me that 
this is far from being true. But at that 
time I took it for an established fact; and 
when I found any commendatory remark 
which I made respecting Mr. Dunbar, re- 
ceived in silence or with a sneer, I imputed 
it to the natural dislike of men to superior 
goodness. 

Ere long, however, I observed some 



75 

things in his conversation which I myself 
disliked. He was too fond, I thought, of 
complaining of the want of religion in oth- 
ers, and of the great coolness of church 
members. There was doubtless room for 
complaint in many instances, but he was 
too frequent and petulant, and spoke too 
sarcastically of good moral lives. Now I 
could see no harm in a good moral life, and 
once told him, " that I did not think it so 
much against a man, that he was a moral 
man; that I rather thought it the part of 
charity to believe that what we cannot see 
is as good as what we do see, and that what 
we do see is, really, though not visibly, 
grounded on right principle." He was dis- 
satisfied with this remark, and ever after af- 
fected to be concerned lest I was resting 
too much on works. He thought that I 
preached " works" too much; and he ha- 
rassed me often with minor questions about 
justification, and faith, and righteousness. 
All this, however, was done in the kindest 
way imaginable, and with so earnest appear- 
ance of desiring my good and that of the 
church, that, although I thought he urged 
matters a little too much, yet my respect 



76 



for him and love to him rather increased 
than diminished. No man had made me so 
much his confidant, and consequently no 
man was so much mine. What he proved 
to be, finally, I will tell in the next chapter. 



CHAPTER XII. 

It was the universal custom of the people 
in the strait days of my youth, to keep the 
annual day of fasting literally, so far as to 
abstain from a dinner. Nothing was eaten 
between breakfast and sun-down, except, 
perchance, a light luncheon, in the interval 
between the morning and evening services. 
It was not uncommon, however, to compen- 
sate for this extraordinary abstinence, by a 
supper as extraordinary; and the meat and 
pudding which had been refused at noon, 
were devoured with a keener appetite in the 
evening. It was thought that the whole 
duty was performed, if the body were but 
mortified during clay-light. 

There were some in my parish who had 



77 

departed from this custom. Mr. Dunbar 
came to me in the week preceding fast, in 
the spring following my ordination, lament- 
ing the decay of ancient manners, and beg- 
ging me to urge, in my next sermon, the im- 
portance of a literal fast. He said much of 
the aid which devout men had derived from 
it in all ages, the profoundness it gave to 
their contemplations, and how it aided their 
prayers, and spiritual-mindedness; he in- 
sisted that self-mortification was necessary 
to growth in grace, and that we were in 
danger, from employing it too little, of be- 
coming entirely devoted to our animal and 
sensual nature. 

I replied, that I had no doubt of all this, 
and that such had been, and would be, the 
efficacy of fasting, when it was voluntary. 
He that will, from religious motives, and 
the desire of holy meditation, deny his appe- 
tite, and spend his dining hour in devotion, 
will, unquestionably, find it profitable. But, 
if the fast be kept by compulsion, or from 
no better motive at bottom, than that it is 
the custom, then it will probably be un- 
profitable, and will hinder, instead of pro- 
moting the devotion of the day. Besides, I 
i 



78 



added, temperance is a better aid to the 
powers of the mind than abstinence; and, 
moreover, they who abstain at noon are 
very likely to revel at night, and in that 
case, whatever good may have been wrought 
is more than lost. Mr. Dunbar said he was 
aware that the day oftentimes ended in fes- 
tivity and indulgence; but, for his part, he 
abhorred it; in his own family, the supper 
was always frugal and religious; and he 
wished that I would attack this crying sin 
as well as the other. 

" Or at least," said he, coming at last to 
the point at which he had all along been 
aiming, " if you do not think right to preach, 
I wish you would speak a word of quiet ad- 
vice to Mr. Ellerton; for his example goes 
a great way; and it is a sinful thing that he 
should cook and eat on fast day just as on 
any other day. He makes no difference 
in the world. And what will become of re- 
ligion and the church, if such men are to 
lead astray the simple people by their exam- 
ple? A good moral man, to be sure, and 
the world speaks well of him. But no man 
can say that he has ever experienced relig- 
ion; and I am sure, for one, that he is an 



79 

Arian at heart, if not a Deist. Indeed, I 
think he ought to be brought before the 
church, and not tolerated in quiet any long- 
er. There is no knowing what mischief his 
example may do; and our fidelity to the 
Head of the Church requires that we eut 
him off." 

Mr. Dunbar had more than once before 
spoken to the prejudice of Mr. Ellerton, but 
never so explicitly as now. I did not alto- 
gether like the tone in which he continued 
to enlarge, and at last replied, that even if 
I thought lukewarmness and suspected er- 
ror proper subjects of church interference, 
yet I was too much a stranger in the place, 
to promote any such objects now. And as 
for the matter of fasting, I could not inter- 
fere at all; for I intended myself to take my 
usual meals. 

He left me evidently disappointed. On 
the day of the fast, there was observed in 
him a studied appearance of rigor and mel- 
ancholy, and every external manifestation 
of suffering for sin, and absorption in divine 
meditation. He was of a " sad countenance 
and disfigured his face." In the evening — 
according, as it was ascertained, to his usual 

K 



30 



custom—- a sumptuous supper was provided, 
He ate and drank to excess, and died the 
next day in consequence of the surfeit. 

The shock my mind received on learning 
these circumstances, may be easily conceiv- 
ed; much more so, when the whole history 
and character of the man were revealed. 
He was discovered to have been altogether 
unprincipled in his transactions with men, 
artful, and fraudulent, and sensual; so that, 
in a word, for I cannot enlarge on so un- 
pleasant a theme, his name became a by- 
word in the village, and never was spoken 
but with an accent of indignation. Yet so 
great had been the cunning of the man, that 
he had both escaped detection, and had 
passed, for the most part, though not alto- 
gether, without suspicion. There was but 
one person who thoroughly knew him, and 
that was Mr. Ellerton. When I learned 
this, I perceived at once the cause of his ill- 
will to that gentleman. 

Mr. Ellerton was one of the principal cit- 
izens of the place, and in most respects the 
very reverse of Mr. Dunbar. He was, like 
all other respectable men of that day, a 
professor of religion. But no man could be 



- 81 

less anxious about its form. He appeared 
with a dress and countenance and speech 
like those of other gentlemen. He seldom 
made religion the subject of conversation, 
and was generally supposed not to be fond 
of reading the scriptures, and not to have 
devotions in his family. He was suspected 
also of not being quite sound in the faith. 
He was esteemed precisely what is called a 
good moral man. Very {e\v would venture 
to call him a religious man, though he was 
punctual at church, and friendly to the min- 
istry. But then he was proverbial for his 
truth, integrity, and kindness, and " every 
virtue under heaven." No man could be 
more universally respected and beloved. 

I did not at this time know so much of 
him, for my ear had been poisoned by Dun- 
bar. I had been led to look upon him cool- 
ly, and to avoid rather than seek his compa- 
ny. I had, consequently, in the seven 
months of my ministry, become hardly in 
any degree acquainted with him. The cir- 
cumstances of Mr. Dunbar's death led me 
to suspect the correctness of my impres- 
sions, and made me solicitous of greater in- 
timacy with Mr. Ellerton. 



o. 



I soon discovered and admired the purity 
and firmness of his moral principle, But I 
wished to go further, and ascertain the state 
of his religious sentiments and affections. 
When we had become well acquainted, and 
were together by ourselves, I found him 
ready and pleased to converse frankly. I 
immediately found that he was indeed an 
Arian; and as I had always been taught, 
without knowing why, to look with horror on 
Arianism, as little better than infidelity, and 
to take it for granted that there could be no 
religion at heart without the worship of the 
Trinity; I thought that I saw at once how it 
happened that he wore no show of religion, — 
for he certainly could possess none; that is, 
none of its fervor, life, and spirituality; 
nothing of it but its decent, every-day mo- 
rality. 

But a more intimate acquaintance taught 
me, that he was no stranger to the holiest 
and tenderest feelings of piety; that he had 
experienced deeply the inward power of the 
gospel, and acknowledged it as a religion of 
the affections. So that, in a word, it has_ 
seldom fallen to my lot to know a soul of 
more elevated, expanded, and heavenly- 



S3 



minded religion, than dwelt within the frame 
of that unobstrusive man : giving direction 
and beauty to his whole life, but itself un- 
seen and unheard in any separate or osten- 
tatious display. 

The observation of these two characters, 
furnished me with much matter for reflec- 
tion. It made me ever after cautious, and 
distrustful of appearances, to a degree that 
was even painful. I learned to be jealous 
of lip religion, and cold towards those who 
were forward in profession. Nay, I was 
beset with an indefinable reserve, which 
sealed my lips, and checked the current of 
my feelings, whenever the subject of relig- 
ion was touched by strangers, destroying 
much of the comfort and satisfaction I had 
hitherto enjoyed in religious conversation. 
How much have I suffered from this cause ! 
while nothing that I have gained has been 
able to compensate for the quietness and 
peace of the unsuspecting temper which I 
have lost. I think, however, that I have 
gained something by teaching myself and 
others to lay the stress upon the solid excel- 
lence of a good life. The longer I have 
lived, the more have I been persuaded ifint 



84 



this is the great end of human endeavor, 
and the great touch-stone by which we are 
to judge one another. The heart we cannot 
see; it must be left to the judgment of God. 
But wherever the life is uniformly and con- 
sistently good, I have learned to consider it 
as the part of charity to suppose that the 
heart also is right. I have been unable to 
join in the outcry against moral lives, as if 
they were, of course, signs of a worldly 
heart. I have thought it mischievous : I 
may say I have found it mischievous. Re- 
ligion is helped by maintaining the dignity 
and importance of good works; yea, even 
though they stand by themselves. But it is 
injured if they be sneered at and defamed, 
because, however you may explain and qual- 
ify, many will understand you to say, that if 
there be faith and zeal, a good life is at best 
of only secondary importance. They will 
therefore make only secondary attempts to 
attain it. How many souls have been ruin- 
ed in hypocrisy and spiritual pride, through 
this mistake! 



85 
CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Ellerton, of whom I spoke in the last 
chapter, was another added to the number 
of the " excellent of the earth," whom it 
had been my privilege to know. Some of 
the peculiarities of his religious faith, and 
those in pretty important particulars, were 
widely different, I had reason to think, from 
those of any other good man I had met with. 
He did not believe in a tri-personal Deity; 
and this was a sort of unbelief, which I, like 
ten thousand others, looked upon with a 
vague sort of horror, I knew not whence nor 
why. For a long time, therefore, I could 
not believe that he was really so good a 
Christian as he seemed to be; and when it 
was impossible to doubt this, my next con- 
clusion very naturally was, that Trinitarian- 
ism, though the truth, yet could not be es- 
sential to the Christian, for here was a 
Christian without it. This discovery did a 
great deal to set me a thinking, and to en- 
large my views. But its best and happiest 
consequence was, to confirm me in my per- 
suasion, that the great practical and vital 
principles of our religion are common to all 



86 

believers. From this persuasion I have 
never varied. Experience has every year 
confirmed it; and it is still one of the most 
comforting convictions of my heart. I look 
forward with the most delightful anticipations 
to the day, when I shall join in one commu- 
nion the souls of those many good men, 
whom I have honored and loved here, but 
from whose fellowship I have been shut out, 
by the miserable bars which prejudice and 
pride have put up amid the churches on 
earth. 

But another important consequence was, 
that, not finding Arianism the monstrous 
thing I had imagined it, but, on the contra- 
ry, consistent with every Christian grace, I 
was led to look upon it with complacency. 
I felt ashamed of the prejudice I had suffer- 
ed myself to entertnin. I felt mortified and 
humbled, that I should have permitted my- 
self to gather, from the wholesale censures 
of books, and the sweeping sneers of conver- 
sation, an inimical impression against the 
holders of an opinion of which I knew noth- 
ing. This was the precise fact. I did 
know nothing, absolutely nothing, about 
them. I had examined other opinions, but 



not this. To this I had never turned my 
attention; had never asked a question about 
it, but had gone on in the way my father 
taught me, taking it for granted that I was 
right, and not so much as troubled with a 
suggestion that it was possible I might be 
wrong. I recollect perfectly well the first 
time the thought occurred to me. It was 
when I had become well acquainted with 
Mr. Ellerton's character, and had been striv- 
ing in vain to reconcile it with his anti-chris- 
tian creed. The question seemed to be ask- 
ed me, how do you know it is anti-christian? 
I felt at once that I did not know, for I nev- 
er had inquired. I cannot describe the sen- 
sation which passed over me, as this thought 
flashed through my mind. A cold thrill 
went through my frame, a tumult of thoughts 
crowded and agitated my mind. I soon felt 
that it was my duty to inquire, and know that 
whereof I would affirm; and in great anxie- 
ty of mind, and earnest supplication for 
heavenly guidance, I at once entered upon 
the investigation. 

The first discovery I made, was one, 
which has been made by multitudes besides, 
but which filled me with inexpressible sur- 



88 

prise. It was, that I was not, and never 
had been, a Trinitarian. When I came to 
see the definitions and explanations of the 
doctrine, and compared them with the state 
of my own mind, I found that I had used 
its language, but had never adopted its 
meaning. I had fallen into its use, just as I 
had fallen into the common language of men 
about the rising and setting of the sun — not 
because I believed what the words literally 
imply, but because it was the phraseology 
in common use where I lived. Trinitarian 
doxologies I had employed, — because I had 
always heard them from childhood; but I 
found that I had never affixed to them Trini- 
tarian notions. I found that I never had 
worshipped any being, but the Father of 
Jesus Christ, and that all my religious feel- 
ings were grounded on the supposition of 
his single divinity. 

So then, I thought to myself, I have been 
guilty of contemning and denouncing a sen- 
timent, which all the time I ignorantly held; 
and of thoughtlessly using language which 
implied a faith different from my actual opin- 
ion. This discovery humbled me to the 
dust. I could scarcely bear the burden of 



89 

shame and reproach which my conscience 
heaped upon me. I have since found that 
this thoughtlessness is by no means uncom- 
mon. Inexcusable as it is, yet many have 
I known in precisely the same situation with 
myself. Indeed, I have reason to believe 
that the large majority of those educatedln 
the orthodox faith, are no more truly Trini- 
tarian than I was, though they imagine them- 
selves to be so; and I have accordingly 
found that, when they allow themselves to 
look fairly into the matter, they discover 
themselves to have been Unitarians all their 
lives without knowing it. 

Had I been acquainted with this fact at 
the time of which I speak, it would have 
saved me much unhappiness. As it was, I 
had a long and painful labor to go through, 
in ascertaining whether my language or my 
opinions were the truth of revelation on this 
subject. The one or the other must neces- 
sarily be rejected as wrong. For two years 
I pursued the inquiry with all -the anxiety 
and impartiality of a conscientious mind. It 
would take too much room to detail the pro- 
gress of my experience at this time. Suf- 
fice it to say, that I obtained complete satis- 



90 



faction at last, and have been ever since 
happy in the simplicity and consistency of 
my Unitarian belief. I have known many 
pass through the same process, with an 
equally happy result; and many, I may add, 
with a result still more happy, because their 
minds were relieved by it from the distress- 
ing burden of other ungenerous doctrines, 
which had preyed upon their spirits and dis- 
quieted their lives, but from whose bondage 
I had been redeemed some time earlier. I 
cannot but remark here, how much is effect- 
ed by the light of a good conversation. I 
was set on thinking, and won to the knowl- 
edge of the truth, by observing one man's 
christian deportment. It would be well if 
Christians were generally aware that they 
can produce no so powerful argument in 
their favor, as a holy life. Thousands will 
understand it and be convinced by it, whom 
no reasoning, though it were demonstrative, 
would at all affect. " Let your light so 
shine before men, that they may see your 
good works, and glorify your Father who 
is in heaven." 



91 
CHAPTER XIV. 

It was in the summer of « , that Mr, 

Garstone took up his residence in our vil- 
lage. It occasioned no little surprise and 
speculation in that retired place, that a 
stranger of education and property should 
select it for his abode. He built a commodi- 
ous but small house upon a little hillock by 
the side of a beautiful pond, which lay about 
a mile from the meeting-house. I never 
had seen him, but as soon as he had taken 
possession of his place, I felt it my duty to 
call and bid him welcome. 

The room into which I entered, impressed 
me at once with respect for the owner of 
the mansion; and as I cast my eyes around 
on its neat and elegant comforts, I thought 
that I saw indications of taste and refine- 
ment, beyond any thing to which I had been 
accustomed. A piano forte, a rarer luxury 
then than now, stood open on one side, and 
opposite to it a book-case, well and hand- 
somely filled. I could give but a hasty look, 
when Mr. Garstone entered. He was ap- 
parently about fifty years of age, thin and 
pale, with a settled melancholy upon his 



92 



countenance, which sometimes approximated 
to sternness; and a manner reserved and 
cold. His appearance rather repressed the 
warmth with which I was disposed to greet 
him; and after several ineffectual attempts 
to throw off the restraint which his manner 
imposed, I left him, disappointed and sad. 

I looked in vain for his entrance to the 
meeting-house on Sunday, though his two 
daughters were there. They were dressed 
in deep mourning ; and this I thought might 
account for their father's manners, though 
he had made no allusion to any affliction. I 
soon visited him again, and gradually we be- 
came a little acquainted. His wife, I found, 
had died about ten months previous; he had 
lost his only son just before, and had now 
bid farewell to the world, intending to spend 
the remainder of his life with his daughters 
in retirement. He attended to their educa- 
tion, he studied and read, and amused him- 
self with the cultivation of his lands. He 
had an extensive acquaintance with books 
and subjects, and oftentimes would delight 
me with his animated and intelligent conver- 
sation. I derived much instruction from 
his society, and he seemed to take pleasure 



93 

in mine. But all attempts to introduce re- 
ligious conversation he uniformly set aside; 
and never attended public worship. This 
made me uneasy; and I longed to know why 
it was, that a man who was evidently un- 
happy, was yet willing to be a voluntary 
stranger to the consolations of religion. 

It was not so with his daughters. They 
were little instructed in religion, but they took 
an interest in it. Indeed, as far as they had 
been taught, they felt its great truths deeply, 
and exercised a profound piety. They were 
glad to converse, when it happened — which 
was very seldom — that their father was not 
present; and I often thought that their coun- 
tenances expressed sorrow, that the subject 
must be dropped on his entrance. I one 
day expressed my surprise to them, that 
their father should habitually absent himself 
from public worship. They replied that it 
had been so ever since their memory; and 
that they believed he did it from principle. 

u Has he no sense of its importance and 
value," said I; "does he feel nothing, think 
nothing, of the great truths of religion?" 

" Alas," replied the eldest, whose name 
was Charlotte, "I fear he thinks but too 



94 

much, and feels too much. I have reason 
to suppose, although he never speaks of it, 
that it is this which lies at the bottom of his 
unhappiness, and that if this burden could 
be removed, he would be a cheerful and 
happy man. 5 ' 

I looked at her for explanation. " Unre- 
flecting men," said she, " may be happy 
without religious faith; for their habitual 
thoughtlessness excludes the subject from 
their minds. But a man who is in habits of 
reflection, and who cannot keep from his 
mind the thoughts of the Author of his being, 
and the great concerns of futurity, must be 
often wretched without a settled faith." 

" It is true, then," said I, " what I have 
suspected, that your father is not a believer 
in the Christian religion?" 

" It is," she replied; "and to you who 
know him, this will account for all his ap- 
pearance and habits. For how can such a 
man, who longs and pants for the refuge of 
its truths, be happy without them? He may 
have everything else; but the want of these 
will leave an aching void, which nothing 
else can fill. O, what^a blessed day it would 
be to us all, which should make him a be- 



y5 

liever! He has every thing else to render 
himself and us happy; but for want of this, 
there is a bitter taste to every enjoyment, 
and discontent in every scene." 

" Is he not aware of the cause of his dis- 
satisfaction?" I asked. 

" He is," replied Charlotte, " and yet he 
is not. That is to say, he acknowledges 
the power of the Christian faith in others, 
and I believe is truly happy that we possess 
it. But he will not allow that it would do 
any thing for himself. He insists that in 
his literary and philosophical pursuits, he 
has all the satisfaction that the human mind 
can attain, and that nothing could add to 
his happiness. But it is very seldom he 
speaks on the subject. Indeed, he is so 
strongly prejudiced, that we avoid any allu- 
sion to it altogether. For I think he is the 
more violently positive from the very feeling 
he has, that there is an essential thing want- 
ing. He tries in this way to stifle his feel- 
ings, and to convince himself that he wants 
nothing." 

" I have seen something like this," said 
I, " in other cases; but I should not suspect 
it in your father. How is it that he is thus 
prejudiced?" 



96 



"It is partly," she answered, "his mis- 
fortune, and partly his fault. His misfortune, 
because in early life he was thrown into the 
midst of fanaticism and bigotry, which dis- 
gusted him, and rendered the whole system 
incredible to him: his fault, because he 
suffered prejudice to sway him, and did not 
deliberately institute an inquiry which should 
separate the false from the true, and show 
him that the system itself may be true and 
excellent, notwithstanding the follies of its 
friends, 5 ' 

" Can you state to me at length," said I, 
" the circumstances under which these in- 
delible impressions were made?" 

Before Charlotte could more than com- 
mence a reply to this question, Mr. Garstone 
came in, and conversation took a different 
turn. I returned home, deeply interested 
in what I had heard, and anxious to hear 
more. 



97 
CHAPTER XV. 

What I had now heard, interested me too 
much to suffer me to rest, until I had learn- 
ed more. The history of Mr. Garstone I 
found to be this: — He was the son of pa- 
rents, whose religion partook of the charac- 
ter of austerity and superstition. He was 
educated in the most rigid restraint, and im- 
bued diligently with the dogmas of the As- 
sembly's Catechism. When he had grown 
to years of understanding, being of a strong 
mind and peculiarly susceptible feelings, 
his reflections on the subject of religion be- 
came earnest in the extreme, and occupied 
him day and night. A fear of God, rather 
dreadful than pleasant, as he expressed it, 
had always oppressed him, and it now made 
him miserable. The doctrines which he 
had learned in childhood, he now began to 
understand and reason upon, and apply to 
himself. He saw that if they were true, he 
was condemned by his birth to an eternal 
curse, which only the re-creating grace of 
God could remove. And this grace was 
appointed to visit only a chosen few. Was 
he one of those chosen ? Should he ever 



08 



taste this grace? Or was he to be aban- 
doned by the discriminating spirit of God to 
his horrible destiny? 

Beneath the agony of hsart which this 
personal application of his creed produced, 
he struggled long and wretchedly. His 
misery, he told me, was indescribable. His 
life, for months, was a burden of terror and 
torture. Every thing lost its relish in the des- 
perate attempt to gain satisfaction and hope, 
from what appeared to him the sentence of 
despair — a sentence, which he was some- 
times tempted to pronounce inconsistent with 
every attribute of justice and goodness. — 
But this temptation he was taught to reject 
as blasphemous, and a foul instigation of the 
devil. He strove to smother every feeling 
of this nature, and in spite of the clear de- 
monstration, which the more he reflected the 
more strongly was forced upon him, he com- 
pelled himself to believe, that all this might 
be so, and God still be just. In this tumult 
of contradictions, in this struggle of his mind 
to be reconciled to what he felt to be dread- 
ful, and tried in vain to perceive to be right, 
two years of misery past away, and health 
and cheerfulness passed away with them. 



99 

Reading, reflection, tears, prayers, were all 
in vain. The counsel of friends was also vain; 
for his state of mind was a cause of congrat- 
ulation to them, being, as they supposed, 
the struggle of the natural man in the throes 
of the new birth, from which he would come 
forth regenerate and rejoicing. They rath- 
er increased than allayed his perplexity. 
They rebuked his attempts to reason on the 
subject, and told him it was vain to hope for 
satisfaction, except only in that prostrate 
faith, which God would give if he pleased, 
and when he pleased. They bade him there- 
fore wait, and not be guilty of the blasphe- 
my of trying God's ways by the rules of hu- 
man reason. 

He did wait, but to no purpose. He 
humbled himself, and strove to quell what 
was called his pride, and to believe the 
consistency of what appeared to him con- 
tradictory, and made it the burden of his 
prayer, that he might only find peace, and 
he would willingly sacrifice every other thing. 
It was all in vain. No peace came. But, 
not to prolong the story, the powers of his 
mind at last triumphed. He found it impos- 
sible, after every effort, to attribute to the 



100 

government of God, what he had been taught 
to attribute to it. He gradually came to 
the determination that such a system could 
not be true, and he rejected it as contradict- 
ing almost every high and holy truth, which 
nature and common sense teach of the great 
Creator. 

I could not help being deeply interested 
in this history. Unhappy man, thought I, 
thus driven away from the light and comforts 
of God's word! How different might have 
been the result, if he had been blessed with 
early opportunities like mine! He would 
have found help in his difficulties, as I did; 
he would have learned, that the gospel of 
God's love is not implicated with any of 
those dogmas, "at which reason stands aghast, 
and faith herself is half confounded;" and he 
might have received it in its native beauty 
and uncorrupted lustre, 

" Majestic in its own simplicity;" 
the ornament, support, guide, and joy of his 
soul, conducting him tranquilly through life, 
to an everlasting hope. But of all this he 
had been deprived. He had come to reject 
the gospel, from never knowing truly its real 
character. He had thrown away its peace, 
from having a counterfeit offered in its stead. 






101 

But though he had rid himself of this 
cause of trouble, he was far from tranquility. 
His religious propensities were strong, and 
his education had been such as to associate 
ideas of the highest importance with the 
subject. His reverence for God was deep 
and habitual, his belief in a future state 
fixed, and his conviction that God had re- 
vealed himself to the world was too deep- 
rooted to be easily removed. There was a 
great deal, too, sublime and beautiful and 
delightful in the history, character, and 
teaching of Jesus, which he could not re- 
concile with his imposture, any more than 
he could reconcile the doctrines he had 
been taught with his truth. Here, then, 
was another distressing embarassment. At 
length he strove to escape from it by avoid- 
ing the subject altogether. He put away 
his bible, he neglected public worship, he 
involved himself in other studies and active 
pursuits, and tried to forget all he had ever 
known or thought about revealed religion. 

But he could not succeed. It came to 
his thoughts in spite of him, and never suf- 
fered him to be at rest. His mind often 
misgave him; he became anxious, melan- 



102 

choly, fitful, unsettled; an unbeliever, yet 
longing to believe; striving to think himself 
wiser and happier than others, yet secretly 
hoping he should one day be like them; 
with a fixed abhorrence of what had been 
urged on him as the peculiar doctrines of 
the gospel, yet conscious that human wis- 
dom could have no light, and human weak- 
ness no hope, except from the declared 
mercy of Heaven. 

Such was Mr. Garstone when I knew 
him. And I may truly say, that I never have 
seen the man more deserving of compas- 
sion; nor can I imagine a more sad picture 
of the deplorable effects of unbelief. I 
bent my knee in devout gratitude for the 
felicity I enjoyed in the glorious faith and 
hope of Christ; and breathed an earnest 
prayer, that I might be enabled to heal the 
errors and comfort the spirit of this unhap- 
py and mistaken man. 



103 
CHAPTER XVI. 

My first object was to gain the confidence 
of Mr. Garstone; for it was above all im- 
portant, that he should not be prejudiced 
against the person who would endeavor to 
remove his prejudice against the Christian 
revelation. In this attempt I had reason to 
think that I did not fail; and having secur- 
ed his friendship, I laid in wait for opportu- 
nity to use it. 

I was not long in finding one. It was 
after the death of Mr. Ellerton, his friend 
and my friend. I spoke of his character, 
and of the loss we sustained in his remov- 
al, with the feelings of a friend, and of his 
prospect in a better world, with the hope 
of a Christian. I dwelt at some length on 
the assurance of our immortality, derived 
from the instructions and resurrection of 
Christ; and, with all the emphasis I could 
command, pictured the blessedness of a be^ 
liever's hope. I could perceive that Mr. 
Garstone was moved. I had touched a 
string which vibrated powerfully to every 
word I uttered. 

" These are delightful thoughts," he said. 



104 

after a pause; "but ." He hesitated 

and stopped. 

I took the word from his mouth. "But 
there is no assurance of this truth, except 
from the voice of revelation. x\ll is doubt, 
except from the instructions of Jesus Christ. 
His resurrection makes all clear." 

"Mr. Anderson," said my friend, "my 
respect for you and for the opinions of those 
with whom I live, has always prevented me 
from obtruding my own sentiments on sub- 
jects of this nature. You cannot, however, 
be ignorant of my mind, and it were better, 
perhaps, that we should be silent where we 
cannot agree." 

I felt that this was the decisive moment; 
and with a violent effort said the first thing 
that occurred to me, lest I should be unable 
to say any thing. " I know," said I, "that 
you have doubts as to the Christian revela- 
tion; but I hope they do not extend to the 
immortality of the soul. And I see not 
why we should not converse on the subject. 
I do long to know on what your doubts are 
grounded." 

" I do believe in the immortality of the 
soul," ho replied; " and for this very reason 



105 

1 cannot believe in the Christian religion. 
For how can I suppose that immortal beings 
are formed by their Creator in a bondage 
so degrading and so hopeless, as that sys- 
tem teaches — from which only a small pro- 
portion of them can ever be rescued, and 
they only by the sufferings and death of the 
Creator himself in human form? How can 
I imagine him to be divinely commissioned, 
who proclaims to me such horrors — and yet 
calls them glad tidings and a message of 
peace, though only calculated to harass and 
torment the soul, as they once did mine? It 
is true, he teaches the doctrine of a future 
life; but how can I believe that life suspend- 
ed on so unequal conditions?" 

He spoke with a deep and convulsive em- 
phasis, that showed how strongly he felt. 
T asked him if he saw no evidence in favor 
of Christ's pretensions? 

He answered, that all the evidence in the 
world would not be sufficient to prove what 
all nature and reason contradict. " Who 
has tried to believe more than I?" he con- 
tinued. " Who has more earnestly longed 
to believe? and who has been more wretch- 
ed for want of believing? Yet I might as 



10€ 

well have tried to persuade myself that I 
could walk upon a sun-beam. But it is all 
past; let us say no more about it. It is a 
subject on which I have not talked nor read 
for years. I cannot bear it." 

But now that the ice was broken and the 
first feeling over, I found him ready and 
disposed to converse, for he saw that he 
might entirely trust himself with me. I 
soon drew from him the acknowledgment, 
that there was much evidence in favor of 
the Christian system, too strong to be satis- 
factorily set aside; that the character of 
Jesus was inconsistent with imposture, 
" and not less so,' 1 he added, " with the 
doctrines which he taught;" and that a reve- 
lation was in itself neither an incredible nor 
an undesirable thing. 

" Then it appears," I remarked, " that 
what decides you against it, is the character 
of the religion itself?" 

" Yes, together with its consequences™ 
the divisions and miseries of its followers." 

" How long since you made up your mind 
in this way?" I inquired. 

" More than twenty years," was the an- 
swer. 



107 

( ^.nd during this period you have not 
pursued the investigation at all ?" 

N6--he had avoided the subject as much 
as possible — had read no books — held no 
conversation — not once opened the Bible. 

I asked him, if he thought it safe to put 
this confidence in the decision of his youth- 
ful judgment, and to retain this obstinate 
prejudice on so momentous a subject. I re- 
minded him, that Christians differ in under- 
standing their religion; and how could he 
tell that another interpretation of it would 
not solve all his difficulties? 

He said, that in his view this very circum- 
stance destroyed all its claims to the cer- 
tainty of a divine origin; for if God should 
teach men, he would do it clearly, and leave 
no room to doubt his meaning. 

I gave the obvious and satisfactory solu- 
tion of this difficulty, drawn from the moral 
nature and probationary state of man; and 
then went on with the topic I had commenc- 
ed. I endeavored to show him, that the ob- 
jections he felt to the Christian system were, 
in fact, objections only to a certain mode of 
interpreting that system; and that therefore 
he had no right to reject it, unless he had 



108 

satisfied himself, from faithful inquiry, that 
this was the only true interpretation. " For 
myself," said I, u I freely declare that I 
think it a very erroneous interpretation. I 
have hardly less dislike to it, than you have 
yourself. I think it an incredible system. 
But I still receive the instructions of Jesus 
with the greatest delight and comfort. You 
have shut yourself out from these, by taking 
the representations of your catechism for a 
true picture of the Bible, and never doing 
yourself the justice to ascertain whether 
they were so or not." I went on to expos- 
tulate on the unreasonableness of this con- 
duct; I illustrated at large my own views of 
the Christian faith; I explained to him their 
consistency with the noblest reason and the 
best affections, with all we delight to think 
concerning God, and all we ought to do as 
moral agents; and I entreated him, by all 
that is dear and sacred, to open his mind 
once more to inquiry, to read the scriptures 
again, and try to welcome Jesus as the way, 
the truth, and the life. 

I was very earnest, and I did not speak 
in vain. Mr. Garstone once more opened 
the book which he had thrown by so long 



109 

and read it with the sober judgment of ma- 
ture life; not interpreting it, as before, by 
the standard of Westminster, but by the 
light of a careful and sound comparison of 
itself with itself. Long and zealously he 
studied. Other matters were neglected, oth- 
er studies put aside. Light on this great 
question he longed for, and he sought after 
it far and near. He did not pause till his 
mind settled in a firm conviction of the truth; 
and with devout and happy faith he could 
exclaim, I believe that ikon art the Christ, the 
Son of the living God. And he was able af- 
terward to add, Though I die with thee, yet 
will I not deny thee. 

From this time he was an altered man, 
The change cannot be described, but it was 
evident in every habit of his life and every 
feature of his face. His mind was at peace. 
He was happy. Often has he described to 
me the relief which he {eh, as if a heavy 
burden were removed from his soul; and in- 
stead of leaving the world a distressed and 
obstinate unbeliever, he died tranquilly, tri- 
umphant in faith, rejoicing in hope. 

I have met with other instances not un- 
like this; and I find it refreshing to my sou? 
, r 



110 

as the shadows of death approach, to reflect 
that the faith which supports me, I have 
known to vanquish confirmed infidelity, and 
bring home to the Saviour those who had 
been wanderers from his peace. So let it 
support me in that hour! 



CHAPTER XVII. 

In the spring of the year it was rumored 
that the old cottage on the hill, just at the 
edge of the village, was to be tenanted again. 
It had been for a long time out of repair, and 
considered not habitable. They must be 
extremely pressed by poverty, it was thought, 
who would be willing to make it their abode. 
And as there is always supposed to exist an 
antecedent presumption against the wretch- 
edly poor, it was a matter of lamentation, in 
the village circle, that we were to be trou- 
bled by vagabonds. 

It was with no small surprize, therefore, 
that I was requested by an interesting look- 
ing girl, of about fourteen years of age, to 



Ill 

come and see her mother, who, she said, 
had over-fatigued herself, and taken cold in 
moving into the cottage, and was quite ill. 
" We came but two days ago," said she; 
. and we are quite strangers here. But 
mother said the minister is always the friend 
of every body, and we can make bold to 
speak to him; so she sent me, sir, to beg 
you will please to step and see her." 

The modest and respectful manner of the 
girl, whose tears stood in her eyes as she 
spoke, touched me; and, taking my hat, I 
immediately accompanied her to the cottage. 

It was little better than a ruin. The roof 
and the walls let in the weather, the case- 
ments were crazy and the glass broken, the 
floors worn and unsafe, and the only habita- 
ble room gloomy and comfortless altogether. 
6< - It is but a sad place to which you have 
come," said I, as we approached it. 

" I could hardly bear to come to it," said 
my guide; " but then mother says that peace 
may be found in a hovel, when it flies from 
palaces; and contentment is worth more 
than splendor. We have seen worse things 
than this, as well as better. She teaches 
me to make the best of every thing, as she 



/ 



herself does. But now she has got sick m 
trying to fix up this poor old place. The 
work was too hard, and the weather too ex- 
posing." 

It was even so. The appearance of ev- 
ery thing, as we entered the door, bore marks 
of severe labor expended in the attempt to 
make the dwelling decent and comfortable. 
I was astonished that so much could be done 
in two days by two females. There was an 
air even of neatness in the apartment to 
which we were introduced. It was a small 
room with but one window, of which half 
the panes were broken, and their places 
supplied by various substances which shut 
out the light as well as the wind. The only 
furniture was a bedstead, three chairs, a 
trunk, and a table, on which lav several 
books — evidently long used, but with care. 
The broken floor had been cleaned, and an 
old piece of carpeting was spread by the 
side of the bed on which the sick woman lay. 
* The bedding was coarse, but perfectly clean; 
and it was impossible not to feel at <>nce sur- 
prize, respect, and pity, for one who seemed 
so capable of adorning a better lot, and yet 
was condemned to one so wretched. This 
was my first feeling. 



US 

The invalid raised her languid head as I 
drew nigh, begging me to excuse the trouble 
she had given me. " But I was sick," she 
added, " and a stranger in a strange place; 
and I knew no one on whom to call, but the 
preacher of the gospel. I need help, and 
advice, and comfort. I have been cast off 
from the world, and have been seeking to 
fly to my God; and I felt that his minister 
would be ready to help me." 

" It is our office," I replied, li in this way 
humbly to imitate our Master. We must 
bear one another's burdens; and I am happy 
that you applied to me at once. First of 
all, you need a physician, and I will send 
Dr. Bowdler to you immediately." 

In fact her whole appearance indicated a 
state of aggravated disease; and after a few 
more inquiries, which served but to height- 
en my interest in the mysterious stranger, I 
took my leave. The physician attended. 
The disease gained ground. I was every 
day at the house, and every day increased 
my wonder and sympathy. Benevolent la- 
dies in the village gave their kind attentions, 
and much was done to alleviate the united 
sufferings of want and disease. The pa- 



114 

tient endured with fortitude and cheerful- 
ness, and seemingly with a spirit of religious 
acquiescence. At length the violence of 
the disorder gave way, and she became able 
to converse freely; but w«s evidently sink- 
ing and wasting in a settled decline. In my 
frequent conversations with her, I learned 
the circumstances of her past history, and 
the misfortunes which had brought her to 
her present situation. These were fully 
confirmed by testimony from other sources, 
and I soon felt that she had a claim upon 
the kindness of all who could serve her. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mrs. HoJden — for such 1 found the name 
of our invalid to be — was the daughter of a 
ministei in a small village near the metrop- 
olis. She was unfortunately subjected to 
the care of a step-mother, who sought to 
compensate for her want of affection and 
maternal fidelity, by care to forward her 
young charge in those external accomplish- 



113 

merits which might most attract the notice 
of spectators, while the more solid and im- 
portant branches of education were neglect- 
ed. Cray, inexperienced, untaught, and re- 
garding the world before her but a scene of 
enjoyment, she relieved herself from a 
guardian whom she despised, by marrying, 
in her seventeenth year, a handsome and 
dashing young man from the capital. Thith- 
er she removed with him; but, alas, not to 
realize her visions of felicity. Beauty and 
gaiety availed her little. Her spirits sank, 
and her bloom faded under the cares of a 
growing family, and the unkindness of a 
brutal husband. Years rolled on, but 
brought no peace with them. The fireside 
had no comfort, and the evening return of 
him, who should have been her best friend, 
was the signal for tears instead of smiles. 
The morning had no cheerfulness in its 
beams, that roused her only to toil and 
weariness. And the lonely day of labor 
and privation was darkened by the anticipa- 
tion of unkindness and abuse at its close. 

Her life was thus wretched without alle- 
viation or hope. Her father died soon after 
Jier marriage, and she was left, with neither 

R 



1 1G 

brother nor sister, to depend only upon a 
husband, who laughed at the oath by which 
he had bound himself to her, and sported in 
her misery who had none to befriend her, 
but himself. Her children — a mother's heart 
cannot be without something like bliss; but 
this in her's was bitter as the tears that fell 
in showers upon them, when she watched 
over them in her deserted home. 

At length a new evil came upon her. 
Her two youngest children sickened, fal- 
tered and died. In the same week they 
passed away together, and slept in one 
grave. Even the father's soul was touched; 
and as he wept with her over their pale 
forms, she enjoyed the first hour of domes- 
tic sympathy which she had known for years. 
But it was only an hour; and she felt her- 
self doomed to drink a cup of ten-fold bit- 
terness, now that she had lost two of the 
only three objects which attached her to the 
world, or made life sufferable. She did not 
know, short-sighted woman, that her Fath- 
er, who had given her the cup to drink, had 
also sweetened for her its draught. 

A mixt feeling of pride, shame, and ob- 
stinacy, had made her for a long time, as it 



117 

makes many, a stranger to God's house. 
Her thoughtless childhood and youth had 
given her no sufficient religious impressions; 
and when she could not go to meeting for 
display, she knew no desire to go for wor- 
ship. The trouble and disappointment of 
her married state she had attributed solely 
to her husband's misconduct; and they had 
therefore never led her heart to Gori^, but 
had rather been suffered to exasperate her 
spirit, and keep her in obstinate alienation 
from him. But now the cause of her sor- 
row was changed; she perceived it to be 
from a superior Power; and her heart was 
softened. A near minister came to pray at 
the funeral of her little ones; and while she 
listened to the voice of his serious and af- 
fectionate sympathy, the remembrance of 
her early days and of her father's prayers 
came over her, and she wept convulsively. 
How often is the heart awakened by the 
recollections of a pious home, which had 
long been sleeping and dead ! He visited 
her; he conversed with her; he spoke to 
her of her Maker; he revived her remem- 
brance of a Saviour; he pointed out to her 
the light, the comfort, the promises, the 



118 

peace of the blessed gospel. She listened, 
and was persuaded. She perceived that 
she had found the friend whom she needed. 
She felt that no one need be alone or com- 
fortless in God's world. She found occupa- 
tion for her troubled thoughts, objects for 
her wandering affections, and was able to 
forget the irritations and trials of her lot; 
or, when she could not forget them, to bear 
them calmly and cheerfully. She had be- 
come a Christian; and weary and heavy- 
laden as she was, she found rest to her soul. 
" You who have always known the hap- 
piness of a religious mind," said she; "you, 
who have never had experience of the va- 
cancy of soul, which belongs to those who 
have neither comfort on earth nor hope in 
heaven — cannot readily conceive of the 
change which now took place in my feelings 
and my whole existence. I seemed to have 
come into a new world. Every thing wore 
a new aspect. I could hardly believe it was 
myself, who was now bearing quietly what 
had before been an intolerable burden. 1 
was astonished to find myself smiling and 
happy — not happy, perhaps, but contented, 
— amidst scenes which had before only irri- 



119 

tated and made me wretched. My husband 
was still negligent and unkind, my lovely in- 
fants were still among the dead, my days 
Were still solitary, and my food scanty and 
poor. But these had become smaller evils, 
for my thoughts and affection had something 
else to rest upon. Religious truth had be- 
come interesting to me. The sabbath led 
me abroad to worship, and thus gave variety 
to my life, excitement to my mind, and peace 
to my heart. The Bible and other good 
books, gave me some new topic of wonderful 
and delightful contemplation every day. I 
was engaged, with an eagerness I never had 
felt before, in teaching and guiding my only 
surviving child, for I felt a new responsibil- 
ity in her behalf. I thus became too much 
occupied to think of my troubles; or at least, 
when sometimes they would intrude them- 
selves. I had a refuge from them, and could 
drive them from my mind. When they were 
at the worst, I knew where I could find com- 
fort; for God's ear was open to me; and in 
pouring out my sorrows before his mercy- 
seat, I at any time could relieve my full 
heart of its burden. — Mr. Anderson," contin- 
ued the invalid, checking the animation 



t 



120 

with which she had been speakinsr-— " I 
freely say this to you, for you can sympa- 
thise with me. You will not count me eith- 
er boasting or enthusiastic; for you know 
what is the power of religious trust. You 
feel what I mean, when I say, that the 
promise was fulfilled to me — I will keep him 
in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on me; 
because he trusielh in me." 

I did indeed understand her, and rejoiced 
to witness the efficacy of that faith, which 

OVERCOMES THE WORLD. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

1 go on with the continuation of MtA* 
Holden's history. It was appointed to her 
to endure a long and severe trial of her 
faith. She had felt, as all are so apt to feel 
in the first experience of religious purposes, 
that she was ready for any thing, that noth- 
ing could now seem hard to her, that no 
temptation could he too powerful for her, 
fhat any yoke would be easy and any bur- 



121 

den light. She little knew what Providence 
had in store for her. It pleased God to 
prove her severely, to try her in the hottest 
furnace of affliction; and it needed faith and 
fortitude, like that of the " three children" 
of old, to pass unharmed and triumphant 
through the flame. 

When affliction does not soften and amend, 
it hardens and makes worse. Thus it hap- 
pened to Mr. Holden. The death of his 
two children had been heavily felt by him, 
but not as the providence of God. He mur- 
mured and complained. His spirit was re- 
bellious. His feelings were exasperated, as 
if wrong had been done him. He became 
more irritable and sullen, and hurried with 
greater devotion than ever to the scenes o| 
irregular pleasure; attempting thus to sup- 
ply, from worldly sources, that void which 
his wife was seeking to fill from the living 
streams of heavenly truth. But he found 
them broken cisterns, which could hold no 
water. 

In vain did his wife strive to lead him to 
those tiuths which were sustaining her. 
He obstinately refused to listen, and angri- 
ly forbad the very naming of the subject. 



122 

And although the serenity and evident con- 
tentment of her mind might have proved to 
him, that the part she had chosen was indeed 
good; yet he sullenly endeavored rather to 
destroy than to partake her peace. He was 
angry that she should be happy, while he 
was discontented. Her very sweetness and 
forbearance were new occasions of offence; 
and the more she submitted to his injustice, 
and strove by mild patience to pacify and 
win him, the more did he brutally persevere 
in wounding her feelings and increasing her 
privations. Would that I were recording a 
strange and solitary case! But alas, many 
are the meek wives and pious mothers, who 
have thus suffered beneath the unmanly per- 
secution of men who had sworn to be their 
protection, but who were afterward wedded 
to pleasure and sin; and who vented their 
insane revenge even on the humblest means 
which were used as a refuge from their vio- 
lence. 

Mr. Holden proceeded from step to step, 
till he had forbidden the visits of the minis- 
ter, and destroyed every book but the Bible, 
and that she was obliged carefully to con- 
ceal. These were grievous privations, 



123 

and bitter were the tears which they drew 
from her. But she redoubled her diligence 
in the instruction of her daughter, and found 
her sabbaths tenfold a delight. Even this, 
however, was to be denied her. In a fit of 
drunken brutality, he swore that she should 
goto church no more; and to make effectual 
his threat, he destroyed the few decent gar- 
ments which she had reverently reserved 
for the service of the temple. This was a 
heavy cross; but a heavier yet was awaiting 
her. He had long threatened to remove from 
her their daughter, who, he said, should not 
stay to be spoiled by a moping, spiritless, 
whining woman. In vain she entreated, and 
prayed, and resisted. Her misery was his 
Sport, and he tore the child away — whither to 
be borne, or by whom to be educated, she 
could not learn. 

Her cup seemed now to be full. Every 
earthly solace was gone, every human hope 
destroyed. Alone, deserted, unfriended, 
nothing seemed left her but misery and des- 
pair. " For a long time," said she, "I was 
stupified and amazed. These repeated 
blows appeared to have stunned rae^ and I 
sat and walked with vacant and bewildered 



i^4 

stupidity. But at last it occurred to me, 
that God had purposely withdrawn every 
earthly and visible good, that he might prove 
me whether I could be satisfied with heaven- 
ly and invisible good alone; whether I could 
trust him, as 1 had thought 1 could, in the 
darkness as well as in the light." This re- 
flection brought her to herself. She hum- 
bled herself, and asked for faith. She 
stretched her eyes upward, and looked 
steadfastly on the clouds and darkness of the 
eternal throne, until she discerned the righ- 
teousness and mercy which rest at its foun- 
dation. She thus found peace — but it was 
sad and trembling and alarmed. She was 
like the timorous dove, that, fleeing from the 
violence of the vulture, takes refuge in the 
bosom of a man; but for a long time flutters 
and trembles, unable to queil its agitation, 
though it knows that its hiding place is se- 
cure. 

There is a point beyond which the heart 
of an abused wife and a desolate mother is 
unable to bear. It must be relieved, or it 
must break. To this point the iil fortunes of 
Mrs. Holden had nearly brought her, when 
the overruling Power wftich had permitted 



125 

her trial, interposed for her deliveraace. — ■ 
Her husband died the miserable death of a 
drunkard, brutish, delirious, hopeless — with- 
out preparation or warning for himself, and 
with only horror and agony for his wife. 

In the language of the world, this remov- 
al would be called a relief — and so it was, 
and so she could not but regard it. But 
what a relief! Only an exchange of suffer- 
ings. For when one has loved some object 
dearly and devotedly, been united with it for 
years, watched for it, prayed for it, suffered 
for it — there is nothing which can eradicate 
the affection from the heart. No unkind- 
ness can destroy it, no ingratitude or harsh- 
ness can cancel it. It may be wounded and 
blighted: it may seem so crushed and brok- 
en as never to revive again. But death 
awakens it to life. The early love of the 
young heart returns in all its strength; and 
sorrow for the friend whom we had once 
adored, is tenfold embittered by the thought 
that we must sorrow as those without hope. 

When Mrs. Holden saw that life was de- 
parted, the feelings of former time rushed to 
her bosom, and she remembered nothing but 
that he was the chosen and kind lover of her 



126 

happiest days. All wrong was forgotten and 
forgiven, and she indulged freely in that re- 
verie of grief, which feasts on the images of 
days that are past, and the shadows of pleas- 
ures that are long gone by. But from this 
the reality soon called her. The hope of 
finding her daughter occupied her whole 
mind, and the search for her become her 
only care. For a long time it was vain; and 
was successful at last, only by one of those 
strange turns of fortune which men call ac- 
cident, but in which she was willing to re- 
cognize the hand of Heaven. " I had once," 
said she, " regarded the singular coinci- 
dences of life as the mere accidental crea- 
tions of chance; but my suffering and my 
faith had made me wiser. I had learned to 
trace them to the kindness my Father. 
And when my dear child, so long lost, so 
long sought in vain, and at length unexpect- 
edly restored, was again folded in my arms 
—oh, I am sure, that any one, who could 
know how the rapture of that moment was en- 
hanced by a certainty that God had done it, 
would earnestly seek to increase the happi- 
ness of life by an habitual acknowledgment 
of an over-ruling Providence. It brightens 
joy as much as it comforts sorrow." 



127 

CHAPTER XX. 

The hasty outline which I have given of 
Mrs. Holden's history, is sufficient to explain 
the character of the woman, whose loneli- 
ness and sufferings drew the sympathy of the 
whole village. A life of disappointment, toil 
and privation had made early inroads on her 
constitution, which was now slowly sinking 
in torture and pain, to a state of final ex- 
haustion. But her spirit bore all cheer- 
fully, and passed, with almost an angel's se- 
renity, the fearful avenue to the grave. 

" I cannot be sufficiently grateful," said 
she one morning, " to the Providence which 
has cast my lot unexpectedly among so kind 
friends. I have every thing that I could 
wish; more than I need ; and oh, how much 
more than I deserve! After a stormy and 
perilous passage, I am not suffered to be 
wrecked, but am led to this quiet haven. 
And yet," she added, with a sigh, " there is 
one thing wanting to my peace — one duty 
that my soul longs to perform." 

" And what is that?" I asked. 

" To commemorate my Saviour's love/' 
she replied, " in his appointed ordinance." 



I told her that I would willingly adminu. 
ter it in her chamber, if she wished; for al- 
though not customary, yet, as a means of 
comfort and faith, it should not be refused. 

" Alas," said she, " I have never made a 
profession of religion. I do not belong to 
any church." 

I expressed my surprize at this, having 
taken it for granted, from what I had heard 
of her story and perceived of her feelings, 
that she had long been a communicant in 
the church of Christ. 

" It is not my fault," said she; " at least 
I trust not, for God knows how earnestly I 
have desired it. I thought it my duty; I 
longed for it as my dearest privilege; I 
thirsted for it as essential to the peace of 
my soul. But I have been debarred — if 
through my own fault, may God have mercy 
on me. But I trust not. I tried to remove 
the obstacle. I would have done it if I 
could, but I was unable. My conscience 
does not reproach me." 

" What has this obstacle been?" I inquir- 
ed. 

" It has arisen from my religious opin- 
ions," said she. " When I received my 



i^>9 

first permanent impressions of religion after 
the death of my dear children, they were 
owing, under God, to the sympathy and in- 
structions of the worthy minister who visited 
me. At that time, when all was horror and 
despair within me, he showed me the char- 
acter and providence of God, explained his 
dealings, pointed me to his revelation in 
Christ, and thus led me to that trust and 
peace in which I have since rejoiced. But 
before I could feel myself at liberty to pro- 
fess my faith, the interference of my cruel 
husband had cut me off from all religious 
privileges. After his death I removed to 
another place. And there I hoped to testify 
and strengthen my religious purposes, by a 
profession before the world and communion 
with the church. But my desire to do so 
was rejected." 

"Upon what ground was it rejected?" 
said I. 

" I will relate the circumstances at length," 
said Mrs. Holden. " After residing in the 
village nearly a year, — for in a situation of 
poverty and obscurity I could not sooner be 
sufficiently known to the inhabitants,- — I made 
known to the minister my history, and espe~ 
s 



130 

cially my religious convictions, concerning 
which he inquired minutely, and appeared 
to be satisfied. But I found, that, in order 
to admission to the church, I must give my 
assent to a particular list of doctrines, which 
were contrary to my convictions This was 
a severe disappointment. ' Is there no dis- 
pensation?' I asked. c Can I be admitted 
to my master's table on no other condi- 
tions ?' 

" * On none other, certainly,' replied he. 
; It is Christ's church, and I can dispense 
with nothing which he requires.' 

" ' And does he require all these articles 
to be believed?' said I. c Some of them 
appear contradictory, some unreasonable, 
and some I do not remember in the scrip- 
tures.' 

" Mr. Welston seemed surprised, and en- 
deavored to convince me of my error. But 
the truths which had consoled and supported 
me, in which I had rejoiced and hoped, were 
not the doctrines of a depraved nature, elec- 
tion and reprobation, and the saving of only 
a few by the suffering in their stead of the 
second person in the Trinity. I had not so 
learned Christ, and was unable to assent to 



131 

his expostulations. He at length told me 
that I needed to be humbled; that my pride 
of reason must be rebuked ere I could re- 
ceive the testimony Gf God. 

" This cut me to the heart. I had been 
humbled — thoroughly, bitterly humbled ; and 
if I know myself at all, I was willing and 
glad to cast myself unreservedly on God's 
word. What else had I? Where else could 
I go? That word was every thing to me. 
I had not a desire or wish or hope, except 
what rested there. To be thus suspected of 
proudly opposing it, to be accused of trust- 
ing to myself when my whole heart leaned 
on God — seemed cruel. I felt it deeply, and 
wept bitterly. 

" Here was a new trial. It seemed as if 
my faith must be in every possible way ex- 
posed, that it might be proved what it could 
endure. I found myself looked upon with 
an evil eye, and regarded as an enemy to 
that religion which was my only friend, and 
for which I was ready to sacrifice every 
thing. I was treated as dishonoring my 
dear Lord, whose name was a precious balm 
to my spirit, and rebelling against the au- 
thority of God, to whom it was my first de- 



1& 



sire and study to be submissive. For the 
first time in my life, I found religious truth 
made the subject of controversy. I had got 
where the Christian standard was composed 
of party materials. I found that devotion, 
meekness, humility, charity, and good works, 
Jove to God, love to man, and an unspotted 
life, were not thought to constitute a disci- 
ple ; and that men judged of the Christian, 
not by the graces that he exhibits, but by 
the articles of faith he subscribes. My own 
case therefore was hopeless. I had been 
mainly anxious for the Christian heart and 
life, and my articles were of a different com- 
plexion. Unhappy as I was made by being 
obliged to defend them, I yet could not re- 
nounce them; unhappy as I was to be deni- 
ed the privilege of owning and honoring my 
Lord, yet I had no alternative, for I could 
not assent to a confession which he had not 
taught me. 

" Under this disappointment I have lived 
year after year. Wretched, indeed, has it 
sometimes made me; more wretched now, 
as the end of life approaches, for my soul 
longeth, yea, panteth, for the consolation of 
this communion with Jesus. I trust that it 



133 

is not an act essential to my salvation; but I 
feel that it would greatly conduce to my 
peace. And all that I desire on earth would 
be complete, if this one further blessing could 
be allowed me before I go hence." 

It was one of the happy moments of my 
life when I assured this pious sufferer that 
her desire should be granted. I had had 
abundant evidence to satisfy me that she ex- 
ercised an acceptable faith; and the church 
did not hesitate to welcome to their commun- 
ion one who was evidently to be, in so short 
a period, admitted to the higher communion 
of the church in heaven. 

It was on the bright afternoon of a beauti- 
ful Sabbath, that, accompanied by a few 
friends, I visited the lowly abode of the dy- 
ing believer, to administer this token of her 
faith, and instrument of her consolation. 
Her wasted form was supported by pillows 
on the low bed. Her wan cheek was flush- 
ed slightly with the excitement of expecta- 
tion, and her eye lighted up with a peculiar 
and animated lustre. Her trembling daugh- 
ter stood over her, and the silent company 
gazed with sympathy and admiration, till 
the holy service commenced, and then I 

T 



134 

trust that all hearts were absorbed in the act 
of devotion. It was a poor hovel, and a pas- 
senger might have cast upon it a look of 
compassion and disgust, at the wretchedness 
which, must inhabit it. But the scene that 
was transacting within, where faith and pa- 
tience were serenely waiting the summons 
of death, and religious friendship was kneel- 
ing around the couch as an altar, and pre- 
senting supplications in the name of him who 
died for man — this was a scene, at which it 
was a privilege to be present, and which 
more than changed the cottage to a palace. 
The whole soul of the dying believer seem- 
ed collected in her countenance. It seized 
upon and responded to every expression of 
faith, penitence, gratitude and hope. And 
when the service was closed, and she sunk 
back exhausted, we gazed upon it, as it had 
been the face of an angel. She said with a 
faint smile, — u Now I can depart in peace;" 
— and before the smile had faded from her 
cheek, death set its seal there forever. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



A SABBATH WITH MY FRIEND. 
CHAPTER I. 

Having purposed to make a journey of con- 
siderable length, which, for a lover of home, 
is a great undertaking; I thought it a favor- 
able opportunity to renew my acquaintance 
with my old schoolmate, Cornelius Benson. 
At school and college we were familiar 
friends; but it was now twenty years since 
we had met. Our fortunes in life had cast us 
far from each other, and the circles in which 
we moved never crossed. I had heard occa- 
sionally of his progress in life, and knew 
that he had been fortunate in his calling, was 
possessed of a comfortable property, and had 
the respect and confidence of his neighbors 
and friends. Indeed, we had never ceased 
to take an interest in each other's welfare, 
and I without hesitation availed mvself of 



138 

the opportunity to pass a little time at his 
house. As I must of necessity pass a Sunday 
away from home, I felt that it could not be 
done more pleasantly than in the family of a 
friend. Sunday is peculiarly a home day 
with me. The quiet of the day, and the 
quiet of the family, seem to belong together. 
Domestic peace and religious peace are twin 
sisters, and both the Sabbath and the fire- 
side seem to have lost a main charm, when 
they are separated from one another. It was 
making a sacrifice of feeling to be absent 
from home on that day; but as it was una- 
voidable, where could the sacrifice be so 
light as in the family of an old friend ? 

It was just at the setting of the sun on 
Saturday evening that I reached my friend's 
dwelling, and received the hearty welcome of 
himself and his family. The fine manliness 
of countenance which had distinguished him 
in youth, was still to be remarked, a little af- 
fected by the passage of time, and by the 
thoughtfulness which had settled upon it. 
His wife was neither beautiful nor otherwise, 
but had that serene and cheerful expression, 
which indicate happiness around and peace 
within. Three children, the oldest of elev- 



139 

en years, had nothing uncommonly prepos- 
sessing in their appearance, but their good 
manners and intelligent faces augured well 
of the government which had been exercised 
over them, and led me to expect from the 
first moment a well managed and haopy fam- 

ily. 

When the bustle of my arrival was over, 

I perceived that I was not to be treated in 
any degree as a stranger, nor to interfere 
with the usual domestic arrangements of the 
house. This is a genuine hospitality, not 
understood by many, which puts the visitor 
at his ease, and proves to him both that there 
is a system in the family, and that his pres- 
ence is no burden. Instead of laborious 
efforts to make me feel at home, and the 
pains-taking confusion, which arises from 
striving to enforce regulations which are put 
in practice at no other time; every thing 
went on with a quiet order, which proved 
that order was habitual. The youngest 
child was put to bed immediately after tea, 
the elder were placed at the table with their 
books for the morrow's lesson, and the moth- 
er sat by them industriously at work, freely 
joining in the conversation between herhus- 



140 

band and myself. It all spoke so much for 
the usual order of the house, and caused the 
first impression to be so favorable, that I 
could not help writing down these trifling 
appearances. Trivial circumstances are of- 
ten decisive indications of habit and charac- 
ter to careful observers. 

" When we are pleasantly employed, time 
flies. " The evening was passed before we 
had nearly exhausted the stock of pleasant 
recollections, which are such delightful top- 
ics to old friends after the separation of 
years; — and the clock struck nine. Mr. 
Benson spoke to his daughter, who brought 
to him the family Bible, and called in the 
domestics. The mother put by her work, 
and each member of the circle followed the 
master of the house as he reverently lead 
from the sacred volume, and then in a seri- 
ous and affectionate manner addressed the 
throne of grace. 

There are {e\v things which affect me 
more than such scenes as this — where the 
most interesting circle on the most inteiesting 
spot of earth, kneels at the mercy-seat, with 
the father for the priest. I cannot contem- 
plate the scene without emotion. I am 



141 

amazed that any one who knows any thing 
of the power and peace of religion, can pass 
by a duty which is so singularly calculated 
to maintain its power and hestow its peace. 
And yet, alas, even with this feeling, I know 
that it is possible sometimes to neglect it. 

I could not help expressing to my friend 
the satisfaction which I felt. " Perhaps," 
said he, " you little expected to have found 
in me this habit; for though always religious- 
ly disposed, yet, when you knew me, I could 
not be called a religious man. This is one 
of the blessings which I obtained by my mar- 
riage. My wife urged it. I yielded to her 
wishes what I might not, perhaps, have 
granted to a sense of duty, and what, if I 
had not done at first, I might, like thousands, 
have neglected to do at all. I became inter- 
ested in it — it affected me — and led me very 
gradually, but surely, to a religious and de- 
vout frame, which has become my chief hap- 
piness." 

" It is the experience of many," said I; 
tc and yet how many refrain from it, through 
a merely false shame in beginning." 

" False shame," he replied, " has ruined 
more souls than unbelief." 



142 

But I do not mean to pursue our conver- 
sation, which led on from topic to topic, till 
the lateness of the hour warned us to retire. 

Mr Benson had informed me of the Sun- 
day regulations of his house, and I was 
therefore not surprised to find the family ris- 
en and assembled at an early hour. It is a 
custom with many to indulge themselves 
with a later sleep than usual on this day; and 
I have not been inclined to censure it in 
those whose severe Uils during the week 
have been unremitting, and whose bodies 
need the kindly rest of the seventh day. But 
I have often wondered that religious people, 
who can plead no such excuse, and who 
know the value of religious exercises, should 
so frequently squander hours of the Sabbath 
morning in sleep, which on other mornings 
would have been devoted to active duties. 
Not so my friend. " It I can rise for gain," 
said h % " I can rise for devotion; and I wish 
my children to learn that religion is a waking 
and a thinking happiness, not a drowsy and 
slothful one." 

The same mode of thinking seemed to be 
consistently acted upon throughout the oper- 
ations of the day. I have never seen a 



143 

household which seemed to me better fitted 
to be a model, or where the Sabbath seemed 
at once to be so truly a delight, and so per- 
fectly to answer the purposes of its institu- 
tion. The morning devotions, though longer 
than I have sometimes known them, yet 
were not made tediuus. The master of the 
house interested his little audience by mak- 
ing remarks as he read, by asking questions 
of the children, and entering into conversa- 
tion on the subject of the chapter. This 
saved it from being a merely formal service; 
and I have seldom known so evident and 
deep interest taken in the Scriptures, as was 
expressed in the attentive eyes and pleased 
countenances of the family group. 

After breakfast was over, Mr. Benson as- 
signed the tasks for his children, who quiet- 
ly sat down to their study; and, to my sur- 
prise as well as gratification, Mrs. Benson 
also engaged herself with reading, which 
she interrupted only for the purpose of in- 
structing the children, until the bell rang for 
worship. I was charmed with the quietness 
of this hour, and wondered how it had been 
redeemed from the bustle and confusion by 
which it is marked in many families. But 



144 

1 found the secret a very simple one. It 
was the resolution to relieve the day from 
all labor not absolutely necessary, and to de- 
vote it to mental and religious improvement. 
In the first place, no time had been lost in 
bed, so as to shorten the morning and waste 
its hour in the hurry of preparation for church 
In some families there is nothing but svash- 
ing and changing clothes, and brushing coats 
and shoes, and perhaps even the last stitch- 
es to be put into some rent garment, or a 
button or a string to be replaced to make 
all " tidy." And in the midst of these vari- 
ous operations, which bear the aspect in the 
children's eyes of being the most important 
of the day, and which are just finished in 
time for meeting — the affairs of the kitchen 
are to be attended to, and the mistress must 
give directions for dinner, and see that the 
pudding is prepared, and the sauces made 
ready. So that, instead of quiet, it might 
seem a little bedlam, and but a miserable 
preparation is made for mingling in the wor- 
ship of God's house. 

This was managed better at my friend's. 
" Ail thai relates to cleanliness and cloth- 
ing," said Mrs. Benson, " is uone the day 



145 

before, and the children are dressed for the 
day on rising. Thus the hour preceding 
service is without interruption, and neither 
our thoughts nor tempers are disturbed by 
unseasonable cares. This I consider an 
excellent habit for my children, as it teaches 
them to value the day for its true objects, 
and prevents them from thinking, as many 
do, that they go to church to show their 
clean clothes. It redeems time also, for 
their studies. For their tasks are thus learn- 
ed the first thing, before their little minds 
have been distracted or wearied; and then, 
for the remainder of the day, pleasant books 
are put into their hands as a reward and 
encouragement. Much is done in this 
way to form a taste for reading, and to make 
all their associations with religion delight- 
ful." 

" And you succeed in this?" said I. 

" Perfectly, thus far," she replied; "I 
believe it is the happiest day in the week to 
them. Nothing is suffered to occur which 
shall irritate them, all occasions of annoy- 
ance are removed, and we study a variety 
in their occupations, which prevents any 
thing from becoming tedious." 



' 146 

" But there is still another advantage in 
this arrangement/' said her husband. "It 
redeems time for our own improvement, as 
well as for that of our children and domes- 
tics. This quiet interval in the cool of the 
morning is a golden opportunity. Many 
are the volumes which we have read togeth- 
er, which we never should have opened, if 
we had passed our Sabbath mornings as 
many of our neighbors do. Even my wife," 
continued he, " has thus been able to ac- 
quaint herself with books on divinity, which 
few men have read." 

I wish that this hint might be enforced 
upon the attention of our female friends. It 
happens with many ladies, that after they 
are at the head of families, they fancy they 
have no time for the further improvement of 
their minds. Their domestic cares are a& 
much as they can attend to; and, submitting 
to this as a sort of necessity, they lose what 
taste for books they once had, and dwindle 
down into very common-place and ignorant 
women. Now there seems to me a great 
fault in this; and, without enlarging on the 
subject^ I will only say, that if they will fol- 
low Mrs. Benson's plan, and redeem the 



147 



Sabbath morning from waste, they will find 
it sufficient to keep alive their taste for prof- 
itable reading, at the same time that it will 
form, or at least help them to retain, their 
devotional taste. And how much might be 
gained, both to the relish and the profit of 
the sanctuary, by the calm state of feeling 
and the prepared sobriety of spirit, with 
which they would then go up to the house 
of God; for want of which, the prayers, the 
music, and the exhortations of that place, 
are so often attended without interest or ef- 
fect. 



CHAPTER II. 

After the morning had passed in the man- 
ner I have already described, the hour of 
public worship arrived, and we went forth to 
church. Here too, I found the same con- 
sistency which I had remarked before. It 
was a principle with my friends to make ev- 
ery thing give way to the moral purposes 
of the day; and, while none could be fur- 
ther from superstition, they yet carefully 



L4fcj 



avoided whatever might deprive any one of 
its full advantages. Therefore every mem- 
ber of the family was allowed to go out to 
public vvorship. Not even a domestic was 
left at home to prepare the family meal, but 
all were present in the house of God. 

" We shall make no stranger of you," 
said Mrs. Benson to me, " but pursue our 
usual course. We are accustomed to such 
a dinner on the Sunday, as may be prepar- 
ed in a short time after returning from wor- 
ship; for we are unwilling, for the sake of 
the gratification of the palate, to deprive a 
domestic of any opportunity so important to 
her. Her privileges at best are few, and it 
seems a pity to abridge them, that we may 
dine well." 

" Indeed," said Mr. Benson, " it can be 
called no sacrifice on our part, and we should 
be ashamed to regard it as such. He must 
be miserably given to his appetite, who 
thinks it a hardship to dine, once a week, on 
cold meat or a beaf steak. For myself, I 
count it a gain; it sits light, and leaves me 
the power of attention, and enables me to 
take as much pleasure in the afternoon as in 
the morning— which would not be the case 



149 

it' J feasted as many do. I know something 
of this from experience. In the family in 
which I lived, when a young man, Sunday 
was a day of special good living. It was 
made a point to have a better dinner than 
common, an extra course was provided, and 
a desert followed. Consequently, more was 
eaten than common, and I always found the 
afternoon preaching excessively heavy and 
fatiguing. It was a general remark in the 
family, that the good parson always preach- 
ed worse in the afternoon, and in a very so- 
porific tone. But the whole fault really laid 
in our heavy dinners, which would have put 
us to sleep beneath the voice of St. Paul him- 
self. At length it happened that the master 
of the family thought it not worth while to 
go to church at all in the afternoon; he was 
sure, he said, that he could get no good from 
such drowsy doings, and it was quite as well 
to stay at home. I was of his mind for a 
time; but when I had come to a better 
knowledge of religion, I discovered that -my 
habit of indulgence was in fault, and that 
any day is better for a feast than a day of 
religious instruction. 

" Not that I suppose there is any sin in 



150 

the thing itself, or that a man is to be con- 
demned for merely eating a better dinner 
than ordinary on the Sabbath. No such 
thing. But a man does very unwisely to un- 
fit himself in this way, or in any way, for 
the best improvement of the day." 

" Or its best enjoyment either," said I; 
" for how can one truly enjoy it, who goes 
to church with an overloaded stomach, and 
heavy eyelids? If one might judge by their 
deeds, I should fancy that half the families 
of my acquaintance, were expressly contriv- 
ing how to render unprofitable this most val- 
uable hour of worship." 

" I am glad that you enter into my views," 
he replied; " indeed they cannot but ap- 
prove themselves at once to every man, who 
will permit himself seriously to weigh the 
matter, and is not ashamed to do differently 
from other people. The only question is, 
whether or not it is desirable to secure the 
greatest amount of moral good, from the 
means which are in operation. If it be, as 
every one will allow, then the common hab- 
its of the people in this respect arc unwise. 

a Let us take this town," he continued, 
a as an example. It contains about seven- 



151 

teen hundred inhabitants; which make not 
far from three hundred families. So that 
three hundred well and able-bodied per- 
sons are kept from public worship every 
Sabbath, for the purpose of cooking din- 
ner. Can this be at all worth while ? Would 
not the cause of improvement and happiness 
be promoted, by allowing these persons to 
be constantly exposed to the influence of 
Christian instruction? 

" The number present at worship in this 
place is probably, on an average, from six 
to seven hundred — less than half the popula- 
tion. And I believe that in no parish can 
we calculate that half the people are actu- 
ally present at one time in the house of God. 
The aged and infirm, the sick and the small 
children, with those who are required to 
attend upon them t are necessarily absent. 
But these certainly would not 3 on an average, 
constitute more than two to each family. 
Thus, then, we account for the necessary 
absence of six hundred persons, in this so- 
ciety. Add these to the seven hundred 
present, and we have thirteen hundred. 
Where are the rest? Three hundred are en- 
gaged in preparing food. 
x 



152 

Hence we may calculate, that in Boston, 
with sixty thousand inhabitants, probably 
not far from ten thousand are deprived of 
the benefit of religious instruction from this 
single cause. In New-York, with a popu- 
lation of 170,000, the number cannot be 
short of thirty thousand. Now what ad- 
vantages are gained to counterbalance this 
evident loss? Why should religious people 
so thoughtlessly cut oft a part of their fam- 
ilies from this means of knowledge and im- 
provement?" 

In consequence of acting upon these no- 
tions, I found that the season of intermis- 
sion was redeemed for improvement as the 
morning had been. A pleasant conversation 
took place with the children respecting the 
services of the morning, which was designed 
to refresh their memories, and encourage 
the habit of attention, and thus give them 
an object of interest at church. Many child- 
ren grow up without habits of attention, from 
not having been taught how to attend, or 
having any sufficient motive set before them. 
I was gratified with the eagerness and read- 
iness with which my friend's children repli- 
ed to his inquiries, and the evidence which 



153 

they gave, of having been accustomed to 
this exercise. To the two oldest, it had be- 
come a pleasure, and was a great means of 
improvement. They regularly wrote a brief 
account of the discourses of the day, which 
was read to their parents, and corrected or 
improved by them. This employment was 
made pleasant to them, and being a regular 
and expected exercise, prevented the day 
from hanging heavily upon them, and pass- 
ing away listlessly. Great pains had been 
taken to save it from the appearance of task 
work, and make it voluntary. This indeed 
was a principle in the whole domestic man- 
agement; and I saw abundant proof of the 
correctness of Mrs. Benson's observation — 
that parents may render any occupation in- 
teresting to their children, by taking interest 
in it themselves, and sharing it with them. 



CHAPTER III. 

The cheerful quietness and entire consis- 
tency of my friend's arrangements for the 
day, put my mind into a frame peculiarly fa- 



154 

vorable for its religious enjoyments. It pro- 
duced a more than usual portion of that 

heavenly calm within the breast, 
of which the hymn speaks, and which, though 
so seldom found, seems so truly the appro- 
priate privilege of holy time. How much 
depends on the state of our minds! At 
another time, I might have fretted at the 
preacher as common-place, dull, and want- 
ing in matter; but now, every thing sounded 
well and I received it with interest. The 
complexion of my friend's home had past in- 
to my heart; I was in good humor with ev- 
ery thing about me; and was ready to re- 
solve, that if such serenity could flow from a 
wise arrangement of the day, I would not fail 
to put in practice the hints I had received. 

I had fallen into a musing posture, as 
thoughts like these past through my mind, 
when we had just returned from the after- 
noon service. I was interrupted by the 
cheerful voices of the children walking in 
the garden, near the window where I was 
sitting. I looked at them for some time, as 
they passed backward and forward, playfully 
but not noisily, and thought that I had never 
seen happier countenances. They were 
glowing with "the sunshine of the soul." 



155 

There was evidently a restraint upon their 
movements, and they did not indulge in loud 
and violent pleasure. But the restraint was 
plainly voluntary, dictated by their own feel- 
ings, and with no harshness in it to ren- 
der it galling to them. 

" This is their time for recreation," said 
Mr. Benson, observing that I watched them, 
" Constant confinement and silence might 
render the day tiresome to them, and its re- 
turn unwelcome, — and God forbid the Sab- 
bath should be so to a child of mine. No- 
let it be a delight; and in order to render it 
so, there must be recreation. I, however, 
make a distinction between the pleasures of 
this and other days, in order to connect with 
every hour of it a sacred association. Make 
it both pleasant and sacred, and it never will 
lose its hold upon the heart." 

We pursued the conversation, and the 
children were left to themselves till we were 
summoned to an early supper. " We neith- 
er fast nor feast to day," said Mrs. Benson; 
" but we have one small luxury at tea. We 
think it well to connect as many pleasant 
associations with the day as possible. Our 
children never see this dish at any other 
time." 



Jdti 

" But will you not lead them," said I. 
" to set an undue value on the gratification 
of appetite?" 

" That might happen," she replied, " if 
ive seemed to value it highly, or talked about 
it as a thing of consequence, or ever used it 
by way of reward or punishment. But we 
do neither; we simply introduce it as a mat- 
ter of course, because it is Sunday; they 
regard it as doing honor to the day; and it 
seems to mingle itself in their minds, with 
the pleasant recollections of the season, and 
be lost among them." 

But I should never cease, were I to record 
all the good hints which were dropped in the 
course of conversation, or repeat every 
thing which made an impression on my mind. 
I must hasten to the end. 

When this happy meal was finished, I had 
an opportunity of witnessing the mode in 
which the day was closed by these careful 
parents. First, questions were asked re- 
specting the religious exercises of public 
worship, and the instructions of the day were 
recapitulated and enforced in familiar con- 
versation. Then the brief lessons which 
had been f learned were recited, — not from 



157 

memory only, but care was taken that all 
should be understood, and what the children 
did not appear to understand, was patient- 
ly explained to them. And this in so 
kind and familiar a way, that it excited 
their interest, and produced no fatigue upon 
their minds. It was done much more in the 
way of conversation than of formal recitation. 
The subject was talked about, and the child- 
ren seemed to feel that they wore partakers 
in what concerned themselves. When this 
was over, each was called upon to repeat 
some hymn; and I never shall forget the 
feelings which were excited by the manner 
in which one of them was closed. I had 
never seen the hymn before; but its simplic- 
ity, and beauty, and appropriateness to the 
circle in which the little lisper recited it, 
won my heart from the very first verse. 
And when she came to the end, and took her 
brother by the hand, while all the brothers 
and sisters joined in a circle, and repeated 
together with her the closing lines- 
Brothers and sisters hand in hand, 

Our lips together move ; 
Oh smile upon this little band, 
And join our hearts in love — 
I cannot describe how affecting it was. 



158 

I was overcome. I was melted. And I saw 
that tears stood even in the eyes of the pa- 
rents, who had heard it repeated a hundred 
times. I felt as if such a prayer from such 
a cherub band, must indeed have a prevail- 
ing power; and I could almost fancy that I 
heard a kind voice whisper, Of such is the 
kingdom of heaven. 

After a minute's pause, the father read 
from the family Bible as on the preceding 
evening, and then all united in singing an 
evening hymn, — which I found always made 
a part of the worship at this season. A fer- 
vent, but brief act of supplication and praise 
followed. As it closed, the setting sun pour- 
ed his last rays upon the wainscot, and 
disappeared beneath the horizon, — as if to 
cast his parting smile upon such a scene, 
and rejoicing to carry with him the record of 
a family so employed. And thus the day 
ended, — to me a memorable one; to be num- 
bered with those which I contemplate with 
satisfaction, and on which I never look back 
without being ready to exclaim, I have gain- 
ed a day. 



lay 



THE VILLAGE FUNERAL. 

It was toward the close of a fine day in 
the beginning of autumn, that I drew near a 
pleasant, retired village on the banks of the 
. The setting sun shone oblique- 
ly on the pure landscape, which was al- 
ready changing its green leaves for the var- 
ious hues of autumn, and seemed to vie in 
splendor with the glorious beauty of the 
Avestern sky. The air was mild and still, 
and the interrupted cry of the birds, that an- 
swered one another plaintively from the 
fields, rendered the hour yet more impres- 
sive. My mind took an impression from 
the season; and as I past pensively and 
slowly along, I was not sorry to find, on the 
edge of the village, before I entered it, a 
grave-yard by the way side. 

I had been musing on the changes of na- 
ture, and the close of the day and the year; 
and I was just in a suitable frame to con- 



iGO 

template the end of man. I alighted, and 
tied my horse, and went in, to read the ep- 
itaphs, and learn how short a thing is life, 
and reflect on the worthlessness of post- 
humous praise. I found a new made grave, 
just opened, and waiting for its tenant. My 
thoughts fixed themselves upon it. For 
whom can this be? And I stood revolving 
the possible answers to this question, un- 
til approaching steps disturbed me, and a 
procession entered the yard. 

I stepped aside to observe it. First came 
twelve young girls, in white dresses, and 
with wreaths of evergreen in their hands.— 
Then followed on old man, who proved to 
be the minister of the place, and who imme- 
diately preceded the bier, which was borne 
by four young men. Mourners, and a nu- 
merous train, succeeded. The procession 
moved on to the grave; they gathered close 
around it; those that bare the body stood 
still, and placed it on the ground. Rever- 
ently the pall was taken off, and in sad si- 
lence the coffin descended to its place. — 
The girls in white approached, and cast 
their wreaths upon it, and then lifted their 
voices in a low and mournful song, which 



161 



gradually grew firmer and swelled louder 
till it closed in a full peal of triumph. 

I never had witnessed such a scene be- 
fore, and every thing was done so simply, 
so quietly, so naturally, that it touched me 
to the heart. I perceived that others were 
affected also; and it was not without evident 
emotion, that the venerable pastor uncovered 
his white locks to the wind, and lifted his 
tremulous voice. "It is well," said he; 
" it is well, it is fitting, that the fair and in- 
nocent should go to their home upon the 
wings of song, and that Christians should 
thus bid adieu to those whom they loved. 
While their spirits are welcomed by the 
hymns of angels above, it is right that our 
voices below should join the consoling and 
enrapturing strain. 

u For what are we laying in the dust ? The 
body. It belongs there. That is its home. 
The weary soul has cast its cumbrous tene- 
ment aside, and ascended without it. All 
that we do is to hide it in its parent earth. 
This is not a work for sorrow and tears; 
when the spirit that dwelt there is rejoicing, 
it is not for those who loved it to be mourn- 
ing. No; let the body go down to the dust. 



162 



as it was, and a solemn hallelujah be sung 
over its bed; for the spirit is gone to God 
who gave it. Death is swallowed up in vic- 
tory; and the shout of victory should be joy- 
ous." 

The old man's enthusiasm kindled as he 
spoke, and he lifted his fine head and point- 
ed upward, as if he saw the heavens opened. 
I gazed on him, and thought of Stephen, 
whose face was i as it had been the face of 
an angel.' The stillness of death was upon 
all, as they looked with almost religious awe 
upon his prophet-like figure. Even the sti- 
fled sobs of mourners ceased to be audible. 
He presently turned his eye downward, and 
dropped his hand, till it pointed to the grave. 

" This is a Christian's bed," said he; 
^ and it is a privilege to stand near it. 
Young she was, indeed; but how pure, how 
blameless, how lovely! The idol of her pa- 
rents, the joy of her friends, the delight and 
example of all. She walked in her Master's 
steps — humble, holy, devout; and with all 
the gentleness of his spirit^ and all the peace 
of his hope, she heard the summons to de- 
part. Life is sweet, she said, and I have 
much to live for; but I have a hope in heav- 



163 

en, and if God wills that I should exchange 
an earthly hope for a heavenly, why should 
I wish to delay? And thus she calmly cast 
herself upon her Father's will, and quietly 
breathed out her spirit into his hand. She 
sleeps in Jesus, and is blest. And who 
would awaken her out of sleep ? Who 
would call her spirit back to reanimate that 
cold frame, and mingle again in the toils of 
earth? Bright as were her prospects, bril- 
liant as was the promise of her life, yet who 
of you would wish her to be restored to 
them? They might deceive and fail her, 
and leave her to a weary pilgrimage of lone- 
liness and wo. But the prospects of the 
world to which she has gone, cannot deceive 
her. They are sure and eternal. The soul 
that has tasted them would esteem the high- 
est gratifications of earth insufficient and 
mean; and the soul that anticipates them 
with the strength of Christian faith, knowing 
that they are, and that the departed idol of 
its affections is enjoying them, — will think 
it profaneness to call the ascended spirit 
back. It is enough to enjoy the cheering 
hope of ascending also, and being joined 
again in the ties of friendship and love. 



164 

"Ana I not right?" said he, turning to- 
ward the parents of the deceased, whose 
tears fell freely, but evidently as much from 
the fulness of religious emotion as from 
grief, — " Am I not right? Is it not better ta 
hope for that blessed re-union in heaven, 
than to have enjoyed her society on earth? 
You and I have many dear ones gone from 
us to the abodes of light. Here is another, 
whom I loved as if she had been my own, 
now added to their company. I have more 
of my dearest friends in heaven than on 
earth; and it makes death delightful to me 
in prospect, because it will restore me to the 
large circle of the good and the loved, from 
whom my protracted years have separated 
me. And this is the triumph of our holy 
faith — that the saddest, dreariest, most heart- 
rending moments of life are the occasions of 
the noblest and happiest emotions that the 
human mind can experience. Even the 
dark and horrible sepulchre becomes a place 
of glory, and the burial of those that are 
dearest an occasion for exultation. Thanks 
be unto God for his unspeakable gift — the 
gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ our 
Lord! Oh how it has changed the feelings 



165 

of this hour! For how could we have borne 
to surrender to the dust this precious and 
beautiful form, if we did not know that its 
more precious spirit survives? But now we 
give ashes to ashes and dust to dust, with a 
hope full of immortality: knowing that this 
corruptible shall put on incorruption, and 
death be swallowed up in everlasting victo- 
ry. For as Jesus died and rose again, so 
also they that sleep in Jesus will God bring 
with him. Oh that we might all be of that 
glorious number! Oh that we might not on- 
ly find comfort from this hope, as we think 
of the angel that has left us, but be quicken- 
ed by it to live and die like her, that we 
may not be separated from her in the last 
great day." 

The old man paused a moment, and then 
said — " I did not intend to have spoken thus; 
but I was impelled and carried away by that 
sweet hymn. My office is to pray; for what 
are human words at such an hour as this? 
Consolation and blessing come only from 
God. Of Him let us seek them." 

Every head was uncovered and reverent- 
ly bowed toward the earth, as the venerable 
man lifted his hands to heaven, and poured 



.166 

forth the language of Christian trust, hope, 
and peace. It was consonant to the senti- 
ments he had been uttering. I could not 
help looking upon him as one standing be- 
tween the living and the dead, and speaking 
from the borders of both worlds. The last 
rays of the sun, whose disc was already 
touching the horizon, threw a glory upon 
his waving white locks, and seemed an em- 
blem of his own spirit, just sinking to its 
rest, that it may rise to a brighter day. And 
as I silently accompanied the departing 
crowd from the grave-yard, I could not help 
recalling the train of thought with which I 
had entered it. Yes, said I to myself, the day 
closes in darkness, the year fades in desola- 
tion, and man sleeps in the dust; but there 
is a morning and a spring-time for all. 
Youth, that is cut down in its loveliness like 
a morning flower, shall bloom afresh in the 
garden of God; and age, that shines in right- 
eousness till it sinks beneath the sod, shall 
rise again in glory, like the sun in the firma- 
ment. Blessed be He that hath abolished 
death, and brought life and immortality to 
light through the gospel! 



167 



MAY MORNING. 

Beautifully broke forth the clear bright 
sun, and balmy was the breath of " incense 
breathing morn," which welcomed the com- 
ing of the queen of the months. The blue 
sky seemed to smile, and the early birds 
were loud with their salutations. Nature, by 
a thousand cheerful sights and a thousand 
sweet sounds, testified her rejoicing, and 
the earth had decked her bosom with the 
first little flowers and budding greens for 
the steps of her lovely visitor. 

But what was all this to one imprisoned 
within the dark chambers of the city — where 
the early hum of human traffic drowns the 
melody of nature's hymns, and high piles of 
brick shut from sight the azure heavens and 
the rainbow clouds ? Man learns to sleep 
over the tokens of reviving spring, hardened 
to its holy serenity by the bustling avoca- 
tions of ambition and gain. But childhood 



168 

yet feels its native sympathy with the young 
year, and owns its influence, and loves to go 
forth with the glad birds and the infant flow- 
ers. It was the voice of children, cheerfully 
preparing for their May-morning stroll, which 
broke my slumbers. The sun just risen 
poured a tranquil light abroad, and I sprung 
from my couch, resolved once more to be a 
child, and taste the pleasures of spring-time 
in the field. 

I had soon passed the streets and the 
bridge, and was fairly in the country. I 
breathed a fresher air, I trod with a freer 
step. I was in the domains of Nature once 
more, escaped from the confinement of man's 
invention and the crowd of man's works. I 
saw nothing around me but the works of 
God, and the light and peace which he sheds 
upon the world that he loves — loves and bles- 
ses, in spite of its sins. I looked upward, and 
in letters of living light the heavens spread 
before me his love. I looked around, and I 
saw it in the swelling blossoms, in the bud- 
ding branches, in the springing carpet of 
green. It came to rny ear in the glad mel- 
ody of the birds, and in the heartfelt accents 
of delight which burst from the groups of 



169 

happy and active children. I felt it in every 
breath I drew, laden with the morning fra- 
grance, which is sweeter than all perfume, 
and wafts health and pleasure on its wing. 
It all has but one Author, I exclaimed, and 
he is Love. It is his spirit which breathes 
in the gale, and lives in all these signs of 
joy and life. 

" Thy footsteps imprint the morning hills, 
Thy voice is heard in the music of rills, 
In the song of birds, and the heavenly chorus, 
That nature utters, around us, o'er us. 
In every thing thy glory beameth ; 
From every thing thy witness streameth. 33 

And so it has been from the beginning — 
" He has never left himself without witness" 
— and what more delightful witness than 
these days, in which " he renews the face 
of the earth ?" It seems like the freshness 
and purity of an original creation. I was 
ready to say w T ith Buchanan, in his beautiful 
hymn, On such a morning as this it was, 
that the new created world sprung up at 
God's command. This is the air of holy 
tranquillity which was then upon all things; 
this the clear and fragrant breath that passed 
over the smiling gardens of Eden; this the 

A A 



170 

same sweet light that then shot down from 
the new-born sun, and diffused a gentle 
rapture over the face of nature and through 
the frame of living things. And such, too, 
shall be the aspect of that morning which 
ushers in the time of heaven's eternal year; 
such the serenity and glory of that day which 
shall call forth to renewed existence, not the 
plants and flowers from a temporary death, 
but the spirits of immortal men; and shall 
roll through earth and heaven, not the music 
of an earthly spring-time, but the rapturous 
anthems of the ransomed children of God, 
rising to the birth of the everlasting year. 

Hail, then, all hail, thou fair morning of 
this fairest of the months — emblem of the 
fairer morning that yet shall be ! Memorial 
of the nativity of earth, image of God's ever 
present love, pledge of au everlasting year I 
Thou shalt pass away, beautiful as thou art, 
and thy blossoms and pleasures perish. The 
hot summer shall scorch them, and the stor- 
my winter bury them beneath his snows. 
But that glorious spring-time which shall re- 
vive the being of man, shall never fade. The 
soul shall blossom and flourish forever in the 
garden of God. His spirit breathes there a 



171 

perpetual balm, and the sunshine of his coun- 
tenance Knows no variableness nor shadow 
of change. Roll on, ye tardy seasons ! ac- 
complish your appointed periods, and intro- 
duce that unfading May. Ye may change, 
but ye bring on that which cannot change. 
Ye may waft to me sorrows and disappoint- 
ments as ye fly; but ye are fast bearing me 
where sorrow and disappointment cannot 
come. And I will welcome even the winter 
of Death, since it shall be followed by the 
spring of Heaven. 



Extracts from a Journal , during a ride in 
the State of New-York, in the summer of 1826. 



17£ 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 

NO. I. 

July — .The place at which I had thought 
to spend this Sabbath proved so noisy and 
exposed, that I determined to ride in the 
morning to the next village, distant abeut 
eight miles. I found it a very small place, 
consisting of a little handful of houses set to- 
gether in the woods; and as I saw no meet- 
ing-house, I feared that this might be one of 
the places in which there is no public wor- 
ship. I alighted at the inn about half past 
six o'clock. The landlord, who was open- 
ing his doors, looked astonished as if his ear- 
ly visitor had dropt from the clouds. Upon 
inquiring of him, I found that there was 
preaching in a neighboring school-house ev- 
ery second Sunday, and that this was the 
regular day. Here, then, I could enjoy a 
quiet and uninterrupted rest. 

The congregation gathered in good sea- 
son, and in sufficient numbers to fill a small 



174 

school-house. The preacher was a young 
man, who had never received ordination, but 
was administering to this little flock on a 
stated engagement for a year. A fastidious 
hearer might have been displeased at his 
uncouth manner, his desultory arrangement, 
his ill selection of words, and his evident un~ 
acquaintance with the art of methodical think- 
ing, or good writing. But I was willing to 
forget all these in the earnestness with which 
he spoke, and the desire he evinced to im- 
press and do good. To listen as a critic, is 
to listen unprofitably. A serious man will 
not suffer faults of style or manner in the 
preacher, to defraud him of the benefits of si 
religious service. 

In a retired place like this, the appear- 
ance of a stranger is so rare as to attrac *m- 
mediate attention ; and I accordingly found 
myself a subject of observation to the little 
hundred in the assembly. The preacher, 
too, at once singled me out, and I observed 
his eye frequently to wander towards me, 
and fix itself with an involuntary curiosity on 
my place. Of this, however, I thought but 
little, until, on returning to the service in 
the afternoon, he fell in with me and accost- 



116 



ed me, giving me to understand that he 
thought me a clergyman, and asking me to 
aid hin> in the duties of the afternoon. Thi:* 
I declined, saying, that I was travelling for 
my health, and desirous to avoid speaking in 
public; and that moreover, I was wholly un- 
prepared. He continued to express a desire 
that I should assist in the service, when I 
told him that there was still an insuperable 
objection, for that I was a Unitarian. But 
this, he declared, should be no objection; the 
people were in a lethargic state, and the 
voice of a stranger might do them good. 
He trusted that I would not speak upon con- 
troverted points, but confine myself to seri- 
ous, practical exhortations. I replied, that 
I should certainly think it criminal to do 
otherwise; and being struck with his libe- 
rality and candid confidence in me, resolved 
to make a suitable return. I therefore told 
him, that if his discourse should suggest to 
me any topics which might be usefully en- 
larged upon, I would venture to rise after 
him, and address the congregation. 

He preached upon the danger of delay in 
religion, and the folly of waiting for a more 
convenient season, drawn from the example 



176 

of Felix. I took up the subject where he 
left it, and pursued the exhortation for some 
time. It may be easily perceived, that the 
peculiar circumstances of the case would 
give it a particularly strong interest in my 
mind; and accordingly I enjoyed a high ex- 
citement and great freedom of speech at the 
time, and look back upon it with satisfaction. 
I could not help hoping, that to some minds 
I did not speak in vain. After the service, 
the preacher invited me to go with him, and 
aid at another meeting, which was to be hold- 
en at the distance of four or five miles. But 
from various considerations I felt compelled 
to decline his kind request. 

There is little in this incident to render 
it worth recording, except as an example 
of praiseworthy liberality in a Presby- 
terian minister. This young man did, 
what so many are unwilling to do — invited a 
Unitarian minister to join him in conducting 
public worship. It deserves to be remem- 
bered. No such example should fail of re- 
ceiving the respect which is due to fearless 
independence and Christian confidence in a 
brother. 



NO. II. 

Having put up my horse, and wash- 
ed myself from the dust, and eaten my bread 
and milk, I turned over the papers which 
were lying on the table, and found amongst 
them the INew-York Christian Inquirer- 
f So,' said I, l you have a little heresy even 
here.' c Aye,' replied the landlord, i and 
not a little.' I was sorry that we were pre- 
vented from pursuing the conversation, as 
no opportunity occurred of renewing it. I 
had heard that a formal attempt was just be- 
ginning to be made to produce in this village 
the same violent religious action which had 
been created in other places. I knew that 
the great leader in these excitements had 
just come hither for this avowed purpose. 
I should have been glad to have learned what 
was the state of the public mind respecting 
it. But this I could not do in the short time 
which I could spend here. I was glad, how- 
ever, of the opportunity to attend a prayer 
meeting in the evening, from which I might 



178 

gather some notion of the method of proceed- 
ing, and the mode by which so great convul- 
sions were brought about. 

This prayer meeting was held in the ves- 
try of the Presbyterian meeting-house, which 
was well filled with persons of both sexes, 
sitting apart from each other. The meeting 
was opened with a hymn. Then arose Mr. 
F. the person whom I have mentioned, and 
made a few remarks on the right method of 
conducting these meetings. He kept his 
eye much fixed on the ceiling while he spoke, 
and uttered himself in a plain and forcible, 
but rather disjointed manner. What most 
surprised me in a man of his celebrity was, 
the apparent irreverence of his manner, and 
the singularity of some of his directions. 
For instance, he said that those who prayed 
on such occasions, ought to be careful not 
to dwell on the attributes of God — for it 
tended to let down the tone of feeling. Many 
of his other remarks were judicious; espe- 
cially in regard to the length of the prayers. 
But this last direction was not observed, 
while the first was. The performers omit- 
ted all notice of the Divine attributes, and 
made their prayers very long. 



179 

When he had done speaking, three per- 
sons were called upon by name to pray in 
succession. They prayed so exactly alike, 
that it is not necessary to speak of them sep- 
arately. They began in a very low and 
drawling tone, but soon became loud and ve- 
hement^ — speaking with all the power of lungs 
they could master, and using the most vio- 
lent gesticulations. In that small room it 
was as much as the ears could bear, and by 
the noise alone, persons of delicate nerves 
must have been affected and agitated. The 
matter of the prayers consisted principally 
of exclamations, and alarming denunciations 
of the wickedness of the village and of the 
sinners that were present. One of the 
speakers was for some time occupied in de- 
nouncing the elders of the church for not 
favoring these violent efforts; saving amongst 
other things, in a very familiar, colloquial 
tone, " Lord, don't send 'em right down 
to hell for this." This familiarity in address- 
ing the Supreme Being was carried so far, 
as to be perfectly shocking. I would record 
several examples, which to my ear were lit- 
tle short of blasphemy, if it were not better 
to forget them. But I cannot forget the 



130 

whole impression of the evening. It was 
one of unmixed horror. Loud, violent, de- 
clamatory denunciations, accents of wrath 
and terror, without one word of compassion 
or tenderness for the sinners they were pray- 
ing for — only the slightest mention of God's 
mercy, and the most terrific description of 
his vengeance. The only object seemed to 
be, to produce a great effect — to frighten 
and agitate — and I could not help asking 
myself, Is this after the example of our bles- 
sed Lord ? Is it thus that our great High 
Priest intercedes for sinners ? Is this after 
the pattern of our Lord's prayer ? Are 
these men really praying to God, or are they 
making orations to men ? Ah, thought I, if 
Jesus were here personally with them, as 
with the twelve in Jerusalem, they would 
not pray thus. It is more like calling down 
fire from heaven, than like his prayer for 
his murderers. 

When these prayers had ceased, Mr. F. 
again rose. He addressed the sinners — 
asked them if they knew that these saints 
had been praying for them— drew a strong 
picture of their criminality, and assured 
fhem that they would go right down to hell 



181 

it* they were unaffected by this scene, fa 
this tone of loud threatening, he continued 
to speak for some time. The address, just 
like the prayers, was pitiless, denunciatory 5 
harsh, with not the slightest appeal to any 
principle in man, but his fear, nor to any at- 
tribute in God, but his vengeance. Anoth- 
er minister followed in the same strain, and 
closed with prayer in a similar style. Then 
four meetings were appointed for the next 
day, and the assembly broke up. 

I must not neglect to record, that through- 
out his remarks, Mr. F. addressed himself 
wholly to the side of the room on which the 
females were seated — as if they were the 
only sinners in the congregation. Also, that 
while the other preacher was speaking, he 
was groaning aloud, and holding his head 
between his hands, and writhing his body, as 
if in great agony of spirit, which aided of 
course in producing an effect upon the spec- 
tators. I confess that even I myself could 
not help feeling the effect of such an exhibi- 
tion. 

When I withdrew, I had much reflection 
on the subject. I had seen a display of 
zeal, which seemed wholly at war with t\i& 



182 

meek and quiet spirit of Jesus Christ, I" 
could not, by any effort, fancy to myself eith- 
er him or the apostles conducting such a 
Scene. In spite of myself, and may God 
forgive me if I judged uncharitably, it did 
appear to me too much like human policy 
and calculating art. I could not understand 
how the servants of the benevolent Jesus 
could think to win souls to him, without one 
word of invitation or pity; how they could 
think to deliver his message, without one 
accent of kindness, one tone of compassion, 
one entreaty of love; how they could be con- 
tent to hurl around them the terrors of Sinai 
and the flames of hell, and say nothing of 
the grace and love of God in the gospel. If 
their only object was to create a great stir, 
they were right; but if fairly to represent 
their Master, were they not wrong? Yet I 
will not judge them. I will only rejoice, 
that I have been led to hold more cheerful 
and grateful views of the minister's duty, 
and the mode of bringing souls to Christ. I 
will rejoice, too, in the belief, that such a 
mode of operation as I had the pain of wit- 
nessing, would not be adopted nor tolerated 
in the part of the country in which it is my 
frappiness to dwell. 



.183 



NO. III. 

Sunday, the 6th of August, brought me 

to the small village of . It is a new 

place, apparently not in rapid growth, and 
with no place for public worship but the 
town-house. Indeed I learned that through 
the whole of this infant county, there is not 
yet one meeting-house. Two or three, how- 
ever, are in the act of being built. 

At the hour of public service, I went to 
the town-house, a neat and commodious 
building, and found very few persons as- 
sembled. In the course of fifteen minutes, 
the room became quite filled, and contain- 
ed an assembly of about 170 persons. They 
exhibited no very strong interest in the ser- 
vices during any part of the day. There 
was much in them, however, to interest me 
strongly. 

There was nothing remarkable in the ap- 
pearance of the preacher. His performan- 
ces were serious, plain, rather homely, but 



184' 

not coarse, and his sermon carefully an.d 
methodically digested. The subject was 
the repentance of Judas. His object seemed 
to be, to prove that Judas exhibited all the 
marks of what is commonly called repent- 
ance, except its result; and his application 
was, that a large portion of apparent Chris- 
tians have probably just as much and no 
more the character of true penitents. In- 
deed he gave us to understand, that it is on- 
ly one, here and there, who has in any de- 
gree a better chance for salvation than that 
treacherous disciple. The impression of 
the discourse was consequently of a gloomy 
character, with scarcely a syllable of en- 
couragement to those who should be seek- 
ing salvation. It was calculated altogether 
to depress and alarm. This indeed was 
most remarkably the whole tone of the day; 
and I found the reason of it to be, that the 
preacher was bent upon having a revival. 
His prayer was mostly occupied in com- 
plaining that there had been none in the vil- 
lage, and insisting that there must be one. 

In the afternoon was the administration of 
the Lord's Supper, and consequently, as I 
Wliere to be frequent ii not usual in the 



185 

Presbyterian church, there was no sermon, 
And I may truly say, that I never witnessed 
the celebration of that delightful and com- 
forting rite, when it was made so dark, so 
cheerless, so chilling. The tone of the 
whole service was austere, forbidding, heart- 
withering. It seemed as if God had with- 
drawn the last ray of mercy from his chil- 
dren, and this ordinance had been instituted 
only as a snare to make more certain their 
inevitable doom. 

There were three men to be admitted to 
the church. They came out into the mid- 
dle of the room, and the minister first read, 
for their assent, the confession of faith. 
What was my amazement to listen to this 
document, as it stretched on, article after 
article, until it numbered twenty-two! And 
for its contents — it not only went over all 
the ground of thorough old-fashioned Cal- 
vinism, but detailed a long series of opinions 
and decisions on questions of mere meta- 
physical speculation, which have very little 
to do with religion of any sort, much less 
with the religion of the gospel. However, 
the three confessors received it all as so 
much gospel, and as if they understood it! 



186 

Then was read to them the covenant of 
the church; and then the minister addressed 
them. The substance of his address was, 
that they had now committed themselves in 
a tremendous way, and had either sealed 
their salvation or their damnation — most 
probably the latter; for such were the obli- 
gations and such the difficulties of the pro- 
fessor, that he could give them small en- 
couragement to hope they would prove faith- 
ful, and if not faithful, their damnation was 
of course sure. He described the devil as 
now watching and laboring to destroy them, 
and employing aboutthem a host of evil spir- 
its, from whose cunning plots it was next to 
impossible they should escape. However, 
as they had fairly committed themselves, 
they could not now draw back, but must do 
the best in their power, and be faithful. 

This address was very Jong, and the hor- 
rors of their condition were painted to these 
unhappy men in the strongest and most ex- 
aggerated colors, holding out to them scarce 
a glimpse of encouraging prospect, and im* 
pressing the spectators with a feeling, that it 
were better to live in total neglect of their 
Lord's command; since to perform their du- 



187 

ty, would be only at the horrible risk of 
making their damnation more sure. 

I lift my heart in devout thanksgiving to 
God, that I have always been taught to re- 
gard with more cheering views this affec- 
tionate ordinance, and to see in it the testi- 
mony of God's love, not of his wrath. 

After this was over, the minister proceed- 
ed to fence the table; that is, to give an in- 
vitation to members of other churches. — 
This he said he should do in a new form, a 
form which had just been agreed upon by 
the ministers of the County. Those there- 
fore, who believe in the following articles, 
are invited, and no others are permitted: 
1. The total depravity of man. 2. Justifi- 
cation by faith alone. 3. The supreme di- 
vinity of Jesus Christ. 4. The eternal pun- 
ishment of the wicked. Those who could 
assent to commune on these terms were de- 
sired to rise. Four or five women rose. I 
of course kept my seat. 

The service proceeded; and through the 
whole, the same desponding and terrifying 
accent was maintained both in prayers and 
in addresses. The minister talked on with- 
out cessation; but not a word of encourage- 



1&8 

merit, not a syllable of tenderness, not a ra 
from the bright side of the gospel covena 
but every thing cheerless, chilling, hopeK 
I could scarcely persuade myself that t. 
was indeed the Christian festival, and tht T . 
these were Christians* sitting at their favorite 
resort, communing with a Father whom 
they loved and a Saviour whom they trust- 
ed, and contemplating a love stronger than 
death, which had opened for them the king- 
dom of heaven. How sadly, thought I, do 
superstition and false doctrine disfigure the 
most lovely and- delightful occasion of relig- 
ious service! 

I found, on returning to my lodgings, thai 
not a dissimilar impression was made on my 
landlady. She was grieved and hurt at the 
new terms of communion which were intro- 
duced. Several persons, she said, and those 
among the most worthy and exemplary Chris 
tians in the place, had been prevented to 
day from partaking as they had been accus- 
tomed to do. She predicted great uneasi- 
ness and division to arise from this step 
amongst those who had hitherto " dwelt to- 
gether in unity, and forborne one another in 
love." 



189 

And so it is! The ministers of Christ — to 

om he gave no dominion, and whom the 
stle commanded not to lord it over God's 

itage — get together in conclave, and 
*gree to force their opinions on the church- 
es as essential doctrines, and drive from 
iheir Master's feet all who cannot assent to 
them! And then, when the oppressed dis- 
ciples, wretched under this deprivation, seek 
redress, they charge them with hatred to 
God and enmity to the gospel, and strive to 
i*uin their reputation in the world! They 
themselves sow the seeds of bitterness and 
.vision, and then ascribe it to satan and 
keresy. So it was in the Catholic church, 
and so it is in the Protestant church. 

But so it is not authorised in the word of 
Christ. It is still written, — in that volume, 
!>y which ministers and people shall be judg- 
ed, — Not that we have dominion over youe 
■faith, but would be helpers of your joy. 



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